


The Long Line

by DJWillyShakes



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1920s, 1930s, 1940s, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Backstory, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Catholic Character, Crossdressing, Elementary School, Gen, Great Depression, High School, Hurt Steve Rogers, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Irish Bar Fights, Mild Language, Military, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Polyamorous Bucky Barnes, Polyamorous Character, Pre-Avengers (2012), Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Sad little Brooklyn boys, Vignette, World War II, nonlinear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-11 06:55:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3318164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJWillyShakes/pseuds/DJWillyShakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of out-of-order vignettes about the boys from Brooklyn before they were household names, from the playground to the slums to the front lines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Couch Cushions

~~1928~~

            Winifred Barnes nearly had a heart attack when someone hammered on her door at just past one in the morning. “George!” she hissed, shaking her husband’s arm. “ _George!_ ” He mumbled something in his sleep and rolled over without waking. Winnie sighed and slid out of bed, pulling on her bathrobe and slippers. “Oh, forget it.” She shuffled down the hall, tiptoeing past the kids’ room. The knock came again, hard and fast. Shave-and-a-haircut. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Winnie muttered. She checked through the peephole, then opened the door wide. “Sarah? Gosh, don’t you know what _time_ it is?”

            “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“ Sarah Rogers said in a hushed, hurried voice. The entire left half of her face was swollen, and her eye was puffy, just beginning to darken to bruised purple. She was clinging to Steve’s hand with white knuckles. The scrawny ten-year-old was bleary-eyed and yawning, bobbing alongside his mother on autopilot.

            Without another word, Winnie stepped aside, shutting the door behind them. She switched on the lamp over the dining-room table. “Is something wrong?”

            “Oh, everything’s fine,” Sarah replied with false brightness, nodding at Steve. “I was just hoping to borrow some of that European coffee we had last Saturday.”

            Knowingly, Winnie moved toward the bedrooms. “Should I get James?”

            “Why, sure—“ Bending down, Sarah got Steve’s attention and smiled as convincingly as she could. “Steve? Would you like to play with James while Mrs Barnes and I talk?”

            He yawned and rubbed at his eyes. “Okay.” He followed Winnie into the kids’ room and waited in the doorway while she stepped up on the bottom rung of the ladder to nudge her son awake.

            Bucky groaned and mashed his face into the pillow. “Five more minutes.”

            “James, Steve’s here to play.”

            “Unh?”  
            “Time to get up.”

            “Don’t wanna.”

            She took a deep breath. “James Buchanan—“

            “Okay!” He sat up and shook himself. “I’m up! Geez.”

            Winnie stepped off the ladder so he could come down. “Don’t wake your sister. Steve’s mom and I will be right outside. Just stay in here for a while, okay, boys?” Without waiting for an answer, she hurried back to the dining room.

            Bucky yawned, watching the door in confusion. “What’s going on?”

            “I don’t know,” Steve admitted, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He was still in his striped olive pajamas. “Mom just woke me up and said we had to come over for a while.”

            Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. The moms weren’t keeping their voices as low as they thought. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, hearing the urgency in Sarah’s voice, muffled as it was through the walls. “Your mom sounds upset.”

            “Yeah.” Steve looked forlorn. “I don’t know what to do. I wish I could help, but I don’t know what’s wrong.”

            Crawling over to the wall behind the door, Bucky picked at the edge of the carpet until a section came up. He handed it off to Steve and slid the shutter to open the floor vent. “Let’s find out, then.”

            “Does that go to the kitchen?” Steve asked, crawling over.

            “Yep. Let’s hope the vent is open in there.” Both boys pressed their ears to the floor and listened.

           -

            “Drink this. You’ll feel better.” Winnie’s voice had a fluted, echoing quality to it.

            “Thank you. I’m so sorry about this.” Sarah sounded on the verge of tears.

            “Look at your eye! What happened? Was it Joe?”

            Sarah was quiet. “He’s on the sauce again. He came home smelling just awful…”

            “Hang on, dearie.” Winnie’s slippers tapped down the hall to the other bedroom. “George!” Shuffling. Mumbling. Two sets of footsteps went back to the kitchen.

            “My God, Sarah!” Mr Barnes exclaimed. “How’d you get that shiner?”

            “Joe gave it to her,” Winnie cut in.

            “No!”

            “He did.” Sarah sounded small. “There was more, too. Yelling, grabbing, pushing—the usual.”

            “He’s drinking again,” Winnie added disapprovingly.

            “You’re joking,” George said.

            “It’s true,” Sarah replied miserably. “There’s a new hole-in-the-wall, I guess, down on 14th.” Her voice cracked, and Steve was visibly affected. “He stays out all night…comes in at sunrise and goes to work grouchy…”

            “Damn.” George’s voice had a hint of a growl in it. “I’ve half a mind to go set Joe Rogers straight. That’s no way to treat your lady.”

            “He’s going to kill himself, drinking the way he is,” Sarah said softly.

            “Let’s hope!”

            “Winnie! For God’s sake.”

 -

            The small lump on the bottom bunk shifted. “Jimmy?”

            “Shh!” her brother hissed. “Go back to bed, Squirt!”

            Rebecca sat up and pouted, her hair sticking up in all directions. “No fair. I wanna play!”

            “We’re not playing,” Bucky snapped. “Go back to bed.”

            “Bull you’re not playing.” Teddy bear under her arm, Becky slid out of bed and padded over, stepping on the hem of her nightgown. “Let me play or I’ll tell.”

            “We’re not playing, Becky,” Steve insisted. “Honest.”

            “Hmph.” Sticking out her bottom lip, Becky sat on the edge of her bed and sucked on her thumb. “What are you doing, then?”

            “Eavesdropping, stupid, now go back to sleep.” Bucky stuck out his tongue and pressed his ear to the floor.

            “Don’t call me stupid!” She threw her teddy bear at him. “I’ll tell.”

            “Sure you will,” he scoffed, throwing it back.

            “We should be quiet…” Steve mumbled.

            “I will _too_ , Jimmy!”

            Bucky rolled his eyes. “Quiet down, Becky. We’ll get in trouble.”

            “ _Good!_ ” Rebecca had inherited her mother’s fiery streak.

            “Geez…” Bucky pushed the shutter on the vent to close it and replaced the square of carpet. “Fine. We’ll just go to bed.”

            “Where’s Steve gonna sleep?” she asked snidely.

            “I can take the floor,” he offered.           

Bucky shook his head. “Nah. You can sleep on the couch cushions like you always do.” He hopped up and slipped out to the hall. “I’ll be right back.”

 -

“—leave him. Just leave him and take Steve and don’t look back,” Winnie was saying when she heard the pitter-patter of sock feet sneaking into her living room. She frowned and got up from the table, catching a glimpse of red plaid peejays just before they clambered onto the couch.

“You know I can’t afford—“ Sarah began miserably.

“Hang on, Sarah. James…” Winnie went over and leaned on the back of the couch, giving her son a look. “What are you doing?”

“Getting the cushions so Steve can sleep over.” He yanked hard on the middle cushion, but forgot to unbutton it from the couch frame, so he only succeeded in falling backward onto the area rug.

“Oh—Steve’s not sleeping over,” Sarah piped up, squeezing her mug of coffee nervously. “I’m sorry, Winnie. We’ll be out of your hair soon.”

“Oh, no. You’re not going back there tonight.” Winnie shook her head. “You can both stay here, and we’ll—James, stop it.”

He looked up from tugging on the cushion, sat back on his heels, and pouted.

“You can sleep on the couch,” she went on, rolling her eyes. “If my son doesn’t destroy it first.”

“I’m _not_ —“

“We’ll talk this whole thing over in the morning,” she finished.

“Give Joe some time to cool down,” George agreed. “Then we’ll make him see sense.”

“I don’t want to cause any trouble…” Sarah muttered.

“None at all,” Winnie assured her. “I’ll get some blankets.” She gathered the coffee mugs and went to the kitchen. “James, go back to your room.”

“But I need the cushions—“

“Mrs Rogers needs the cushions to sleep on.” Winnie rinsed out the mugs and dug through the linen closet. “Steve can sleep on the floor. I’ll get him some blankets, too.”

“He shouldn’t,” Bucky countered, crossing his arms. “It’s not good for his back. He has scoliosis, remember? And he needs to be propped up for his reflux.”

“That’s true.” Sarah nodded and made to get up. “Steve can stay here, but I can go back tonight. I’m more worried about him—“

“No, no. We’ll put down blankets to make Steve a mattress. It’ll be fine.” Winnie pulled an armful of blankets out and gave Bucky half. “You’re not an imposition, Sarah. Not at all.”

 -

Bucky dragged the blankets back to his room and threw them in a pile. “Climb up, Steve. You’re staying over.”

Steve closed _Little Red Riding Hood_. Becky had snuggled back into her covers, face buried in her teddy bear’s fur, thumb in her mouth. “Huh?”

“You and your mom are sleeping over. Get in my bed. I’ll take the floor.” Yawning, Bucky kicked the blankets into some semblance of order and rolled one up for a pillow.

“Oh—no, that’s okay, I can sleep on the floor—“ Steve tried to help, setting the book aside, but he was pushed out of the way.

“Not happening. It’s bad for your back.” Bucky kicked off his slippers, wrapped up in his blankets, and rolled over. “No more arguing. G’night.”

Steve climbed the small wooden ladder and slid in between Bucky’s blue gingham sheets. “G’night, I guess.” But he stayed awake for a long time, thinking about what he’d heard. He wished his mother had said something, anything to keep him in the loop. After a while, he rolled over, peeked through the wooden railing of the top bunk, and whispered, “Bucky?”

His friend let out a mildly questioning grunt.

“Do you think Mom’s gonna get hurt again?”

Bucky let out his breath, half-asleep. “I don’t know, Steve.”

“Why would Dad do that to her?”

“I don’t know.”

Steve was quiet for a long time. “I won’t let him do it again.”

Bucky was quiet for a long time. “I know you won’t.”


	2. Rebecca Paige

~~2014~~

            “Sorry I broke your handcuffs,” Bucky murmured against the pillow.

            “That’s okay.” Natasha sighed, turning the largest surviving chunk over in her hand and watching the light from the bedside lamp reflect off the shattered metal. “I don’t know what I expected. Wrapping adamantium in aluminium, I mean.”

            “Did I hurt you?” He rolled over and played with her hair. “More than I was supposed to?”

            “You never do, stupid.” Lightly, she tapped him on the nose with the shard of handcuff. “Some supersoldier you are.”

            “I’m not enough?.” Bucky took the metal scrap away from her and crunched it into confetti.

            “Sexy.” Brushing the metal shavings off his chest, Natasha snuggled closer, running her hands up his back. “And what a clever way to preserve your masculinity.”  Her fingers found the junction of metal and flesh at his left shoulder, making him jump. She laughed. “Tickles?”

            “No—kind of radiates down my entire arm.” He pulled away slightly. “Which is not a toy, by the way.”

            “Jury’s out.” Teasingly, she poked at the smattering of dark bruises she’d left all down his chest. “How are you planning to explain these to Dr Narayan?”

            “I figured I’d leave my shirt on when talking to my therapist, just this once.” Bucky took her fingers away and kissed them to stop her. “Call me old-fashioned.”

            “I thought she had to check you periodically for signs of self-harm.” Natasha rolled onto her back and wrestled with the covers.

            “She usually just asks me.” He stretched against the sheets and stifled a yawn. “Any long-term damage shows up in more ways than one, anyway.”

            “Am I staying tonight?” Natasha fluffed her pillow.

            Before he could answer, his phone rang. “It’s Sam,” he said, shooting her a worried look before picking up. “Hello?”

            “Hey, Barnes. Sorry for calling so late.”

            “Not at all. What’s going on?” Bucky kept one eye on Natasha. There was a mischievous look on her face that couldn’t be left unsupervised.

            “Fury’s phone’s not working. He told me to pass a message along.” Natasha straddled his lap. It was incredibly distracting.

            “Yeah?” He waved her away. She pretended he hadn’t.

            “Sounds like he’s been doing some digging, using the information you opened up at the Smithsonian.” Nat leaned down and bit his earlobe, testing.

            He didn’t flinch. “What’s he looking for?”

            “Dunno. But he found…” Sam took a deep breath. “You sitting down?”

            “More or less.” Natasha was kissing down his neck and toying with his hair. He nudged her away. “What is it?”

            “Your sister.”

            “Rebecca?” Bucky sat up sharply. “You found her?”

            “Rebecca Barnes Proctor, man. We did.”

            “She’s still alive?” Heart pounding, he pushed Natasha away. “Where?”

            “A retirement home in Long Island. But you should know—“

            “Give me an address, Wilson,” Bucky growled. “Or I’ll jump the grid and find her myself.”

            Sam sighed. “395 Sunken Meadow Road.”

 -

            He caught the first ferry in the morning. Too excited—or nervous—to sit in a cab, Bucky walked. It wasn’t even a mile, anyway. He found the nursing home and hesitated outside the sliding doors. The red-brick façade reminded him of their old apartment building, except it looked clean and well-kept. He went inside.

            The young receptionist looked up and smiled. “Welcome to St Johnland Nursing. Can I help you?”

            “Yes—I’m looking for Rebecca Proctor?” It was hard to keep from sounding anxious. Bucky played with his fingers.

            “Certainly.” She clicked through the records. “Are you family?”

            “I—kind of.” He had to stop himself. “I’m her grandson’s…boyfriend. We’re supposed to meet here to visit her. He’s going to be late.” Silently, Bucky hoped he hadn’t made up a grandson.

            “Oh, of course.” She pressed a button to unlock the interior door. “Room 413. Go on in.” As he left, she called, “Tell Scott I say hi!”

            Bucky mentally noted he had a grandnephew named Scott and made his way to the fourth floor. Just as he stopped in front of 413, a male nurse in purple scrubs tapped him on the shoulder. Bucky jumped about four miles.

            “Are you a visitor, sir?” the man asked, eyebrows furrowed in simpering worry.

            “Yeah—“ Irritably, Bucky tried to explain to his heart he wasn’t on a battlefield. “I’m here to see Rebecca Proctor.”

            “And Mary sent you up?” The nurse cocked an eyebrow. He had very dark skin and a bright gold earring. “It should be in the system by now…”

            “What? What happened?” A cold pit of fear formed in Bucky’s stomach. “Is she all right?”

            “Mrs Proctor had stage four liver cancer,” the nurse said, with a sentimentally grave kind of sympathy. “She’s been on life support for the last eighteen months. Last night, well…her heart just gave in.”

            Numbness was immediate and all-encompassing. Bucky froze. “She’s…dead?”

            The nurse nodded in solemn remorse. “I’m so sorry…were you close?”

            “Yeah.” He felt dizzy. The room seemed tilted. “Just last night?”

            “Three twenty-three am. It was quick,” the nurse assured him. “No pain.”

            Bucky checked his watch. He’d expected to be too late by six years. Not six hours.

 

~~1943~~

            “James, can you stir the pasta, please?” Winnie called from the other room, trying to get her lipstick even. “I don’t want it to stick.”

            Sighing, Bucky dropped the skivvy roll he was packing and went to the kitchen to swish boiling water with a wooden spoon.

            “Not like that.” Rebecca peeked over his shoulder, frowned, and elbowed him out of the way. “Don’t just poke at it. You have to scrape the sides.”

            “Excuse me, bossy.” He backed away, hands up defensively. “I’ve been boiling noodles on camp stoves in the Alps that way, and they always turned out just fine.”

            “If you wanted army food, you shouldn’t have taken leave,” Rebecca retorted, tapping the water from the spoon before setting it aside.

            “Aw, I couldn’t stay away from my favourite baby sister.” Throwing his arms around her waist, Bucky lifted her off her feet like a ragdoll and snuggled her.

            Rebecca squealed and kicked, pounding at his hands. “Put me down! Jimmy Barnes, you meatball!”

            He did, laughing. “Can’t hardly believe you’re going to Africa. And I’m gonna miss it!”

            “Just like you missed my graduations— _both_ of them,” she reminded him, brushing past to the dining-room table, where she was doing some packing of her own. “And birthdays—gosh! _So_ many birthdays…”

            “All right, all right.” Bucky rolled his eyes, leaning back on the kitchen counter. “I hope you won’t be so uptight in Africa. The natives will think you’re mad at _them_.”

            “She’s still going? Ugh.” Winnie bustled out of the bathroom to dote on her pasta. “My son’s off to die in the Alps, my daughter’s off to die in the desert…”

            “The Congo, Mama. Not the desert,” Rebecca corrected. She and Bucky exchanged a look. “And I’m _going_ to observe the native tribes and be integrated into their culture. I won’t be in any danger. Well,” she added, rolling her eyes, “Maybe I’ll be bored to death. I’m going with Dr Sanders, but that _dreadful_ Jonathon Proctor also won the fellowship. He’s _so_ lazy.”

            “If he’s anything like his big brother, he’s a knucklehead, too.” Bucky laughed. “Willy Proctor was the kid who got sent home from basic. Nearly shot the Colonel in the eye.”

            “I just don’t see why you can’t take a year off,” Winnie fretted. “A girl your age should be out meeting people, finding a husband. Don’t you know what happened to that hotshot woman scientist from Poland? Such a tragedy…”

            “You mean her two Nobel Prizes?” Bucky countered dryly, shooting his sister a wink.

            “Besides, Mama, you never know,” Rebecca added teasingly. “Maybe I’ll meet a Congolese prince to whisk me off my feet.” Dropping some heavy books into her trunk, she went on as an afterthought. “Or maybe I won’t get married at all.”

            Winnie went red and stomped back to the bathroom, hair falling loose from her curlers. “You two. I can’t bear it when you gang up on me like this.”

            “Come to the Stark Expo tonight,” Bucky offered. “It’ll be fun. And we haven’t spent much time together since I’ve been in town.”

            Rebecca thought for a while. “What time do you leave tomorrow?”

            “Oh-five hundred.” He shrugged. “I don’t expect you to get up.”

            “Only five?” She cocked an eyebrow. “Will you even be back by then?”

            “Pest.”

            Rebecca went back to her packing. “Who’s going?”

            “Me, Steve, Missy, Grace—“

            She scoffed. “Spend time with me, sure. You’re bringing those share-cropping Victory Corps girls?”

            “Hey, they’re not loose or anything.” Bucky frowned. “Don’t you wanna come?”

            “I want to have half a second to spend with my big brother,” she sniffed, “before he ships off to Italy. I’ve had plenty of time this month to chat with Steve while those Victory girls fawn all over you.”

            “What, you don’t like Steve?” he asked, stealing her fat, leather-bound notebook to get her attention. “C’mon, Squirt. It’ll be fun. Haven’t you heard the rumours of what Howard Stark’s got up his sleeve? I heard mechanical men…cars that drive themselves…”

            “Oh, go on.” Rebecca snatched for her notebook, but he held it out of her reach. “Jimmy!”

            “There’ll be lots of people,” he reminded her playfully. “Maybe you can do some of that anthropological observation you like so much. Get yourself some extra credit.”

            “Give it _back_! Mama!”

            “James Buchanan, leave your sister alone. For cripes’ sake, you’re a sergeant. Act like it.” Winnie sounded distracted, but no less firm. “Don’t you have packing of your own to do?”

            Bucky dropped the notebook into Rebecca’s trunk and rolled his eyes. “You’re going,” he told her on his way back to the bedroom. “That’s that.”

-

           She didn’t go. Bucky got back to the apartment around two. They’d left the Expo at midnight, but ended up celebrating Steve’s surprising 1-A stamp with some army buddies, all of whom were headed back to Europe on the same plane as Bucky and dying for a wild night before they left. He came in as quietly as he could. Surprised to see a light still on, Bucky dropped his key into the little clay bowl on the kitchen counter, then stifled a laugh.

            Rebecca had fallen asleep in a pile of her own blouses. Easing her away from the table, Bucky scooped her up and carried her into their old bedroom, setting her on the bottom bunk. It still bore the pale pink comforter she’d been so excited to get just before they left Shelbyville. The whole drive east, she’d wrapped herself in it in the backseat, while her grumpy, mildly carsick brother pointed out how the butterflies embroidered on it had uneven numbers of wings.

Bucky pulled the covers to her chin, kissed her forehead, and went to the kitchen table. He dug her fancy, leather-bound anthropologist’s notebook out of her trunk, found a pen, and commenced ruining the first page:  


            _Becky,_

_Sorry I won’t be there for your big send-off…again. Pop some champagne in_

_the Old World for me._

_Make sure you keep Jack Proctor in line, so he doesn’t get killed by natives._

_You’ve always been the smart one. Looks like you’re on your way to being the first_

_doctor in the family. Work hard, be safe, and don’t forget to have fun once in a while._

_I love you. I’m proud of you. Pop would be, too._

_Your favourite brother,_

_J B Barnes_

_PS—Mark your calendar, squirt. June 16, 1946. See you at Grand Central!_

 

            Just before rolling up on the couch in hopes of a few hours’ sleep, he remembered to grab his bag and alarm clock from the bedroom.

            Rebecca didn’t see the letter until she was settled in the Congo. When she read it, she cried. When she came home, and waited in Grand Central Station for two hours, and was called to the control office, and saw the telegram her mother had written in three years earlier, and heard that Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes of the 107th had been killed on a Nazi transport in the Italian Alps, and pulled out the first of eleven notebooks she’d filled with her observations and notes and read the letter, she cried more.

 

2014

            Somehow, he ended up in Central Park. The day went by without him. Like he’d been frozen again, in a cryo chamber on a park bench with his face in his hands. He forgot he had a phone until it rang aggressively, blasting a generic ringtone.

            “Barnes.”

            “Who are you?!” The male voice on the other end was irritable and utterly unfamiliar.

            “You called me.” Bucky frowned.

            “You tried to visit my grandmother today. Why?”

            He blinked, trying to remember the name the receptionist had given. “Scott?”

            “Who _are_ you?!” the voice snapped again, equal parts incensed and, quite possibly, afraid. “How do you know me?”

            “We should do this face-to-face…”

            Angrily, the voice wound up for another go. “Who—“

            “I’m your uncle,” Bucky interrupted sharply in his best drill-sergeant tone. “And I’m really not in the mood, Scott. My little sister just died.”

            That shut him down fast. After a little explaining, he agreed to meet. It was nearly one when they walked into the Starbucks by the Hoboken airport. Scott was short, wiry, and stubbly; Kimberly was taller, chubbier, and blonde. They both looked to be in their mid-thirties. Bucky thought it was hilarious. His grandkids, technically speaking, were older than him. They also seemed lost. Kimberly held a blue plastic tote to her hip while she glanced around blindly.

            He still had Scott’s number. He texted, _2 o’clock._ Scott looked. Bucky waved. Tentatively, they came over.

            Kimberly clutched her tote and asked, “James Barnes?” She was nervous.

            “That’s me.” He pushed out the chairs across from him with his foot. “Scott and Kimberly Proctor?” They nodded and sat down.

            “How _old_ are you?” Scott blurted out.

            Bucky laughed. “Ninety-seven. Believe it or not.”

            “Wow.” His nephew sat back. “Who’d you have to kill?”

            “I told you, kid.” Bucky shrugged. “It’s classified. Here—as promised.” He handed over dog tags, drivers’ licenses, both old and current, and military and school IDs.

            “How’d you know who we were?” Kimberly wanted to know, pulling up an empty chair for her tote.

            “He looks like his grandma.” Bucky pointed to Scott, who was busy checking the documents for authenticity to the best of his ability. “At least, the way she was the last time I saw her. In 1943.”

            “It’s all good.” Scott passed everything back over. “So you really are our Uncle Jim.”

            Bucky grimaced. “Never thought anyone would call me that.”

            “Grandma used to talk about you all the time,” Kimberly offered. “Stories about Africa and stories about her big brother. That was her specialty.”

            “She used you as a cautionary tale to keep me from joining the army right out of high school.” Scott laughed a little weakly. “I went to med school instead.”

            “You’re a doctor?”

            “Paediatrician.” He nodded to his sister. “Kim writes.”

            “Children’s books,” Kim added. Suddenly remembering the tote, she pushed it over. “There are for you. Some things Grandma gave Dad when she moved into the home.” Scott got up to get coffee, and she gave him her order before going on. “It’s anything of hers the university didn’t keep.”

            “University?” Bucky peeked under the lid, but resisted the urge to dig through right away.

            “Oh—I guess you wouldn’t know—“ Kim smiled wincingly. “Grandma Becky worked for the Anthropology Department at Vanderbilt University almost her entire life.”

            He caught sight of the letterhead atop a bundle of notes before shutting the lid. _Dr Rebecca Barnes Proctor, Research Professor_. Bucky smiled. “Good for her.”

            “Damn, whoever’s Camaro that is outside, it’s insane,” Scott cut in, bringing both cups back to the table. “The chrome detail alone must’ve cost—“

            “—Not much, if you do it yourself.” Bucky crumpled his own coffee cup and threw it into the garbage. “That would be mine.”

            “You’re kidding.”

            “Nope.”

            Scott all but pressed his nose to the glass to get a better look at the car. “Can I drive it?”

            Bucky looked at his niece.

           She nodded encouragingly. “He’s a geek, but he’ll be nice to it.”

           He shrugged and tossed Scott the keys. “Go for it.”

 

~~1943~~

           Rebecca read her brother’s letter over and over until she’d memorized it. She knew there was a war going on, but didn’t see much of it in the Congo. She could never get a letter through to Europe or the States, but she wrote them anyway, to her mother and brother, figuring she’d deliver them by hand when she could. In a foreign country, with a hundred native languages she didn’t speak, and what little news that made it through bringing nothing but disaster, the letters became a kind of solace. When she returned to the States three years later, her mother was overjoyed to see the fat stack of letters bound with twine and read them all right away. The other stack, Rebecca kept and never opened. They sat in the attic of her town house in Nashville for sixty-eight years, and the attic of her son’s Hoboken duplex for two. Sealed with wax, bound with twine, addressed to a camp in Italy that no longer existed.

_Jimmy,_

_One of the women I helped do the washing today saw your note. She said my_

_sister must be very beautiful, to have such delicate handwriting…_

_Jimmy,_

_Learned today that Dr Sanders is a huge Dodgers fan. You two would get_

_along well—except he’s actually halfway intelligent…_

_Jimmy,_

_I hope you’re safe. I heard things are heating up in Europe. The death counts_

_seem too high…_

_Jimmy,_

_I’m scared to go back to the States. The war doesn’t touch me here. I don’t_

_want to see your name on a list…_

_Jimmy,_

_I miss you. I love you. Your funeral was beautiful._

 

~~2014~~

           One night, after Natasha fell asleep, Bucky cut the twine around the fat bundle of letters and read them. All of them. Then he looked at the funeral invitation lying open on his nightstand. Natasha rolled over, and a letter fell on her face, waking her. When she looked up, he was crying.

            


	3. New Kid

~~1927~~

            Steve sat in the back of the class, so he knew Mrs Penzik wouldn’t notice him taking out his pocketknife to cut down the lead of his pencil. He needed a thinner point to sketch in the whiskers of the cat he was drawing for Ella Jane Monette, and though he ground and ground at pencil after pencil on the wall sharpener, he could never get it fine enough. The finer point was perfect for the whiskers, though it broke when he started on the ear tufts, and he had to start over.

            He was so engrossed in carving down the point of his pencil and trying not to cut up his fingertips any more than he already had, he didn’t hear anything going on at the front of the class, including when Mrs Penzik introduced the new student. After the kid sat down, she turned to write on the blackboard. “Class, take out a clean piece of paper—and Steven Rogers, put that notepad away before I take it.” He hung his head and did as he was told. It wasn’t until recess he had the chance to take it out again. Steve sat on a bench by the playground and worked on the cat’s eyes. He couldn’t get the shape _quite_ right, and it frustrated him.

            A ball thumped against the back of the bench. Someone shouted, “Rogers!”

            He didn’t look up.

            “Hey!” One of the bigger boys, who usually got in trouble for wearing his big brother’s Yankees cap in class, leaned on the back of the bench, ball tucked under his arm. “What are you doing?”

            “Leave me alone, Mikey.” Steve hunched over his sketchpad and tried to ignore him.

            “Drawing’s for girls,” Mikey sneered, kicking the back of the bench. “Come play kickball.”

            “I can’t. Go away.”

            “Can’t? What are you, chicken?” Mikey waited a few seconds before lunging forward and tearing the notepad from Steve’s hand, immediately running off.

            “Hey!” Steve clambered off the bench and ran after him as fast as his knobbly legs would take him. Panting, he caught up and grabbed for his notepad, only to trip and fall flat on the blacktop. “Give it back!”

            “Or what? You gonna tell?” Mikey snorted and flipped to the first page, a half-finished sketch of the view from Steve’s bedroom window. He grabbed the paper near the spine and started to tear it out.

            “ _Hey!_ ” Steve struggled to his feet and grabbed for the pad, but Mikey was taller than him. “Stop! Give it back!”

            “Or what?” the bigger boy taunted. “What are _you_ gonna do, shrimp?” Steve jumped for it, again and again, but Mikey smacked him away each time.

            Then there was a nasty sound like meat hitting the floor and Mikey staggered and let out a wordless yelp, dropping the sketchpad and falling sideways onto the asphalt. Whimpering, he clutched at his ear. Steve scrambled forward and snatched up his sketchpad.

            The new kid was standing over them, wringing his right hand in the most subtle way possible. Steve guessed he’d bruised his knuckles on Mikey’s brick-like skull.

            Angry, Mikey tottered upright and jutted his chin in the new kid’s face. “What’s your _problem_ , Barnes?”

            “You’re the one picking on kids for no reason.” The kid scowled and kicked dust onto Mikey’s dingy slacks. “Leave him alone. He wasn’t bothering nobody.”

            “Yeah? Well—“ Suddenly, Mikey felt something wet in his hand. He looked down to see his fingers dripping blood, gagged once, and started crying. The playground aide ran over and helped him to the nurse’s office.

            “Bucky Barnes,” the kid said, reaching down to help Steve up. “You okay?”

            “Yeah.” Steve shook his hand once he had his footing again. “Steve Rogers. You’re the new kid, right?”

            “Yeah.” Bucky saw the principal walking toward him and tried to appear nonchalant. He nodded at the notepad pressed to Steve’s thin chest. “You’re really good. I can’t draw to save my life.”

            Steve barely had time to say “Thanks—“ before the principal led Bucky away. The new boy got detention after school every day that week, and on Friday, Steve waited out front for him to get out. At four o’clock sharp, when Bucky ran down the steps of the school with the mandatory note for his parents, Steve was waiting on the curb.

            “I was gonna ask if you wanted to walk home together.” He got up and smiled. “Since you don’t really know anyone yet.”

            “Sure.” Bucky shrugged and threw his “notice of discipline” into the gutter. “Where do you live?”

            “492 Monroe Street, apartment 8B. You?”

            Bucky blinked. “Same building…3F.”

            “What are the chances? Hey—” Beaming, Steve tried to open his backpack, stuff in his sketchpad, and follow Bucky all at once. “Where did you move from?”

            “Indiana.” Bucky kicked a rock and stared up at the buildings. “I like it a lot more here, though. All there was in Shelbyville was farms.”

            “All we have in Brooklyn is dirt,” Steve scoffed. “And litter.”

            “You have the Dodgers. And the bridge. And the subway. Tall buildings—“ Bucky trailed off, stopping at a street corner.

            “You like baseball?” Brightening, Steve started to cross.

            “Sure. I’m gonna hit for the Dodgers someday. That’s why we moved here,” Bucky informed him, grinning. “So I can train.”

            Skeptically, Steve raised an eyebrow. “You’re full of it.”

            “Okay, okay, that’s not why. But I’m serious about the second thing.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “My ma was born in the Bronx. She wanted to be close to where Grandma lives.”

            “My grandma lives in Pennsylvania.” Steve wrinkled his nose. “Dad would never let us move _there_.” He watched his feet for a couple sidewalk squares. “Why’d you stick up for me, anyway?”

            “I said.” Bucky shrugged. “You weren’t hurting anybody. He shoulda just left you alone. That’s what I told the principal, too.”

            “Yeah, well, Mikey’s always been a bully,” Steve muttered, a little bitter. “He thinks because he’s good at kickball he can pick on whoever he wants.” He blinked up at Bucky curiously. “Did you break his ear?”

            “He’s fine,” Bucky assured him, fishing his key out of his pocket and mounting the building steps.

            “You have your own key?” Steve marveled, tripping up behind him.

            “Of course, stupid. How else would I get in?” Bucky unlocked the knob and deadbolt and nodded him inside. “C’mon.”

            “I have to ring the buzzer.” Steve gave a rueful look to the overturned bucket that helped him reach the intercom. “Mom lets me in.”

            “You wanna say hi to my ma?” Bucky asked on the stairs. “She should be back with my little sister by now.”

            “That’s okay.” Steve stopped on the third-floor landing to wave goodbye. “See ya tomorrow.”

 -

            After dinner that night, when Winnie had just cleared the dishes, there was a knock at the door. Curiously, she answered, and a smiling blonde woman offered her a pie.

            “Sarah Rogers,” she said. “8B. My son told me you were new to the city, so I thought I’d come welcome you to the building. I hope you like blackberries.”

            “Love ‘em.” Winnie beamed and stepped back to set the pie on the table. “Winnie Barnes. Your son is…Steve, right?” Sarah nodded. She laughed. “James couldn’t stop talking about him at dinner. Sounds like our boys really hit it off.”

            “I’m so glad.” Sarah looked a little sad. “Steve doesn’t have many friends, you know, and I’ve always thought it wasn’t good for him…”

            Winnie pulled the door wide. “I know what you mean. Won’t you come in?” 


	4. Macie Baby

~~1934~~

            “Barnes.” Taptap.

            “Mnuh.”

            “ _James_.” Taptaptap.

            He cracked his eyes open and lifted his head from the desk, offering Mrs Jones a sleepy smile. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

            She scowled at him, lips pursed. The pencil she’d used to tap him awake found its way back into her bun. “Does US History bore you, Mr Barnes?”

            “Gosh, no.” Bucky stretched and leaned back in his seat, fiddling with the buttons of his cuffs. “I was studying.” He knocked on the drool-stained page of his textbook. “I’m nearsighted, y’see. I gotta get close to the page.”

            “Mm-hmm.” Mrs Jones returned to the board with her tight lemon-mouth and even tighter bun. “Sleeping in class _and_ bald-faced lying. Do you _want_ detention, James?”

            “Sure, ma’am, if it means I get to spend more time in this wonderful classroom with your sunny self,” Bucky replied, twirling one of his pencils. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Willy and John trying not to laugh, and grinned.

            The teacher gave a disgusted sigh, straightened her mint-green dress, and picked up her chalk. “Pay attention. Don’t let me catch you sleeping in my class again.”

            “Don’t worry, ma’am.” Flipping open his notebook, Bucky gave her a winning smile. “Next time, I’ll be sure not to get caught.”

            She rolled her eyes and began writing states’ names on the blackboard. “Please turn to a fresh page and title it ‘The Louisiana Purchase’…”

            Satisfied, Bucky bent over his paper and started copying. A jab in the ribs with a sharp pencil point made him jump. It belonged to Macie Whitacre, who peered at him disapprovingly through her Coke-bottle glasses.

            “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” she hissed, retracting the offending pencil. “You knucklehead. She’s going to fail you, and they’ll kick you off the baseball team.”

            “Is it true what they say, Macie?” he teased. “That smart girls make better lovers?” He bit his lip and shot her a wink. “I’d sure like to find out.”

            She let out an audible squeak and swatted him on the arm. The teacher turned sharply. “Miss Whitacre, please be quiet so other students can do their work.”

            “But—I—“ Macie’s mouth opened and closed like a fish’s. She waited until the teacher wasn’t looking to shoot Bucky a withering look. He only smiled to himself and finished copying down states.

            When the bell rang, Willy and John caught up with him in the hallway. “Boy, does she hate you.” Willy Proctor stuffed his hands in his pockets, nearly walking into a locker door and earning a nasty look from its owner. “How do you think of stuff to say like that, anyway?”

            Bucky shrugged. “I dunno. I just do.”

            John O’Malley checked to make sure the hall monitor was gone before pulling a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. “Want one? I swiped them from Principal Pfluger’s desk when I was late this morning.”

            Willy gladly accepted one, but Bucky scowled. “What are you, a Dead End Kid?” He snatched the pack from John and tossed it into the trash. “C’mon, Johnny. You’re the only good shortstop we have. Can’t run a double play when you’re keeled over from black lung.”

            Willy promptly threw the cigarette away, but John didn’t flinch. “Shows how much you know. You don’t get black lung from smoking, fat-head.”

            “Fine. Keep smoking. I’ll try not to say I told you so at your funeral.” Bucky punched him in the arm and stopped at his locker. “But if Coach catches you, you’re dog meat.”

            “Aw, boo, so I’ll never be captain.” John rolled his eyes. “The whole team—probably the whole world—knows it’s gonna be you this year, Barnes.”

            “Really? ‘Cause _I_ didn’t know.” Bucky looked over his books, trying to decide if he had the motivation to do any homework that night. “Coach tell you that?”

            “Nah, baby, Grayson did. Before he graduated, remember?” John leaned against the lockers and struck a match. “He announced it at the party.”

            “Only…you probably weren’t there…’cause your crazy ma showed up,” Willy chimed in.

            “Yeah, and cuffed me to the kitchen table for the rest of the weekend,” Bucky muttered. “Marty said that?”

            “Sure. Coach hasn’t confirmed or anything, but c’mon.” John cocked an eyebrow and took a long drag. “Did you really think it’d be anybody but you?”

            “Yeah, I did.” Slamming his locker, Bucky smacked him in the back of the head. “’Cause I’m not a stuck-up creep like you.”

            “Bucky!” One skinny hand thrust itself above the crowd. “Hey!” Steve wormed his way through the rush of kids and met them by the lockers. “How’s it going?”

            “Hey, Steve.” Without even looking, Bucky yanked the cigarette from John’s hand and crushed it under his heel.

            “Aw, what gives?”

            “You’ve got healthy lungs. You can afford to destroy ‘em,” Bucky told him with a challenging look. “He can’t.”

            John sighed and pushed off the wall. “We gotta bus to catch, anyway. C’mon, Will.”

            Willy was on his heels. “See ya, Buck.”

            “Bye.” Shouldering his backpack, Bucky nodded toward the exit. “You ready?”

            “Yeah.” Steve was practically vibrating with energy as they made their way through the rapidly-diminishing crowd to the street. Half a block from the school, he couldn’t keep it in anymore. “Hey, what’re you doing next Thursday?”

            “Just practice.” Bucky glanced at him. “Why?” Steve shoved an orange flyer into his hand, and he frowned down at it. “Football?”

            Excitedly, Steve nodded. “We’re gonna get a team next year! But there’s training in the summer, so we’ve gotta try out now.”

            “Look at all this stuff you have to do.” Bucky scanned over the flyer. “Wind sprints, tackling drills…Do you even know how to _do_ those?”

            “Sure I do.” Steve frowned. “What are you getting at?”

            “First of all, I can’t try out with you.” Wincing, he handed the flyer back. “I’ve got baseball.”

            Crestfallen, Steve stuffed the orange leaflet back into his pocket. “C’mon, Buck. The seasons are totally different.”

            “Yeah, but we have a game on the day of tryouts.” Bucky looked down and scuffed his shoes on the sidewalk. “And if I really did make captain this year, I can’t miss games.”

            “You made captain?”

            “Unofficially.”

            Steve offered a distracted smile. “Congratulations.”

            “Thanks.”

            He waited for the “you can still try out if you want”, but it never came. Watching cars rattle by, Steve tentatively asked, “Will you at least help me train for it?” He looked ruefully down at himself. “I’m gonna need it.”

            Bucky didn’t answer right away. Just when Steve was about to break the uncomfortable silence, he sighed. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea, Steve.”

            Steve swallowed. “You don’t have to. I can do it myself.”

            “No, I mean…I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to try out.” Hooking his thumbs in his pockets, Bucky shrugged. “Football’s all about running into the other guys. Don’t you think they might…y’know…snap you in half?”

            Steve rolled his eyes. “It’s not like I’m not used to getting beat up.”

            “This isn’t like getting beat up…Steve, this is _asking_ to get really hurt.” Unable to keep the worry out of his voice, Bucky made a detour for the drugstore. “Bigger guys are _supposed_ to run into you in football. Besides, what are you gonna do on the team? You can’t run without wheezing, you can’t knock a guy down…”

            “I can throw,” Steve insisted. “I have the best curveball in Brooklyn, Bucky, you know that.”

            “A football doesn’t throw like a baseball,” Bucky countered, buying two Cokes and passing one to Steve. “And that’s assuming you by some miracle make the team.”

            Steve stared sullenly into his soda and took a drink. “I get it. I’m skinny.”

            “No, you’re _suicidal_ , is what you are.” Bucky shook his head. “Look, Steve…I’m not gonna stop you from trying out, but…at least ask your ma first. So if you collapse and they call her up, she’ll at least know why.”

            “Forget it, Buck,” Steve muttered. “It was a stupid idea.”

            “Aw, that’s okay.” Grinning, Bucky clapped him on the shoulder. “Guess I don’t always have to be the dumb one, huh?”

            Steve smiled back weakly and took another drink. “Guess not.” He thought for a while and opened his mouth to speak, but Bucky cut him off.

            “Holy cow—that’s Macie.” He pointed.

            Steve followed his gaze to the steps of the public library. Just approaching them was a girl with unruly black hair wrestled into frizzy pigtails, thick glasses, and a bright blue dress. She held her books to her chest and kept her head down as she walked. He frowned. “Macie?” Bucky was already gone. At some point, before vanishing, he’d shoved his Coke into Steve’s hand. Sighing, Steve jogged toward the library steps to catch up.

            Bucky ran in front of Macie and backpedaled up the steps. “Macie, baby, when are we gonna run away together, like we promised?”

            She scowled and tried to get past him. “Oh, leave me alone.”

            “C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t be like that.” He faked a grab for her books to get her to look up. “Just gimme one kiss. That’s all I need.”

            Macie stopped and pushed him away, rolling her eyes. “You sure think you’re hot stuff, Bucky Barnes. Go away.” She elbowed past him and stomped up the library steps.

            Smirking, he followed, right on her heels, still trying to catch her eye. “ _Your eyes so blue/Your kisses too/I never knew what they could do—“_ he sang teasingly, flicking one of her pigtails.

            She kicked out, trying to step on his toe. “You go to Hell.”

            “Oof!” He fell, dramatically, on the stairs at her feet, clutching his chest as though he’d been shot. “Don’t do this to me, Macie! I’ll die of heartache.”

            “I hope you do,” she snapped, trying to step over him.

            He hopped up and slid his arm around her shoulders. “C’mon, ditch the books. Let’s go to a movie. We can sit in the back, in the dark…”

            Macie’s eyes widened and she threw off his arm with a squeal. “Oh, you—“

            “Bucky, leave her alone.” Doing his best to disguise his panting after running up the steps, Steve started to roll up his sleeves, eyes hard.

            Bucky hesitated for a second before struggling nonchalantly. “Aw, whatever. See ya, Macie.”

            She muttered, “Greaseball,” and stormed up the stairs to the library.

            He grinned. “I tell ya, she adores me.” His shirt had come untucked in his pratfall. He fixed it and headed back to the street. “C’mon.”

            Steve didn’t move. He’d left the sodas at the bottom of the stairs, and his hands were curled into fists at his sides, mouth set in a hard line.

            Bucky glanced over his shoulder and frowned. “What’re you waiting for?”

            “Why’d you go after her like that?” Steve demanded. “She wasn’t doing anything.”

            “I was just playing around, Steve…” Confused, Bucky inched a few steps closer to him. “We do it all the time.”

            “Didn’t look like _she_ thought it was playing,” Steve insisted. His bony knuckles were white.

            Bucky rolled his eyes. “What are you gonna do, Steve? Hit me? Because I don’t think you’re actually mad about Macie.”

            “Just ‘cause she’s quiet doesn’t give you the right to pick on her.” Steve made up for the six inches Bucky had on him as best as he could, jutting his chin up into his friend’s face.

            “It’s just teasing. No harm done.” He nodded back to the street. “Let’s go. Your ma’ll be worried.”

            “Just ‘cause we’re friends doesn’t give you the right to call me a shrimp,” Steve said, more quietly.

            Bucky sighed heavily. “What do you want me to say, Steve? You’re little. It’s a fact. You’re skinny, and you’re sick: you’re asthmatic, you’re anaemic, you have heart problems…” He counted Steve’s many maladies off on his fingers. “You can’t help it. I know that. But that’s just the way it is.”

            Steve hit him. In the stomach. There was enough force behind it to knock some of the wind out of Bucky, and he was able to hide how much the shock hurt his knuckles.

            Shaking it off, Bucky dusted off his shirt. He frowned, shooting Steve a warning look. “Don’t hit me.”

            Steve only seemed to take that as a challenge. He bounced on the balls of his feet like a boxer, fists at the ready. He lunged again, from the left this time, but Bucky caught his wrist. He yanked back, but Bucky didn’t let go. Frustrated, Steve threw right, only to have his other wrist caught as well.

            Calmly, Bucky transferred both wrists to his left hand and ducked under Steve’s arms to pull him into a fireman’s carry. “I’m taking you home.”

            Steve squirmed, painfully aware of the number of people seeing him, a grown sixteen-year-old man, hanging off a shoulder. Bucky carried himself effortlessly, even having a hand free to grab their Cokes at the bottom of the stairs. Steve’s struggles barely fazed him. After a block, Steve gave up and went limp. “Put me down.”

            “Nope.” Bucky held the Cokes behind his back for Steve to take. They were approaching Monroe St. “Can you hold these? I wanna get at my keys.”

            “Put me down and you’ll have a hand free,” Steve suggested.

            “Not a chance.”

            Begrudgingly, he took the bottles and waited while Bucky unlocked the door. “Want me to drop you at your place, or take you home?”

            “I _want_ you to put me down.”

            “Not happening, Steve.” Bucky started up the stairs. “You’re acting like a baby, so I’m gonna carry you around like one.”

            “This isn’t how you hold a baby.” Steve scowled and craned his neck to look Bucky in the eye. “You were picking on that girl!”

            “I was just teasing. I do it all the time, and you never threaten to punch me out,” he shot back. “This is you being upset about football and finding a reason to take it out on me.”

            Steve let out his breath. “It’s just…I know I’m small, Buck. I don’t need you to remind me.”

            “I know, pal.” When they reached the door for 3F, Bucky set him down. “And listen, Steve…if you really have your heart set on football…you’re insane.”

            He laughed. “Yeah, I kinda figured.”

            “But…” Bucky sighed and passed him his Coke. “If I really did make captain, I’ll talk to Coach Sorensen and see if we can’t try you out as a relief pitcher for the rest of the season.”

            “Really?” Steve brightened. “You’re not kidding?”

            “Really.” Bucky unlocked the door. “I’ll do my best. Comin’ in?”


	5. Future Plans

~~1935~~

            “Hey, are you Victoria Madrigal?” Janie Whitacre adjusted her thick blue sweater before sitting down next to the new girl. “I tried to catch you after class.”

            “Yes.” Shyly, she looked down at her potatoes. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know.”

            “That’s okay. I’m Janie, by the way.” Janie picked at the clump of meatloaf on her tray. “I’m supposed to be showing you around the school after lunch. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to find you.”

            “I’m Victoria.” She tugged on her neat brown braids, trying not to turn too red. “It’s nice to meet you. I guess I was a little intimidated. This school is much bigger than my old one.”

            “There’s nothing real special about GW,” Janie scoffed with a mouthful of peas. “I’ll give you a tour when we’re done, but I can tell you everything you need to know about the people, right now. For instance.” She sat a little higher in her chair and pointed across the cafeteria to a table of boys in shirts buttoned all the way up and a few textbooks littering the tabletop along with their trays. “That’s where the eggheads sit. Genius-types, you know?” Swallowing, she pointed to a table of girls in knee-length skirts and matching sweaters. “Usually I sit there, with the other girls in chorus. The girl in pink is Carrie Slinger. She’s the best soprano we got.”

            Victoria nodded slowly. “Where should I sit? After today, I mean.” She felt suddenly self-conscious about commandeering her own table.

            “Wherever you want. It’s not like there’re rules.” Janie shrugged. “It’s just a quick guide to the school, y’know?” She took a drink of milk and pointed with her fork to a table (the loudest in the cafeteria) just to the left. “All the baseball and football players sit there. See?”

            Victoria nodded. The majority of the boys at the indicated table were a little rumpled—wrinkled slacks, sneakers instead of shoes, rolled-up shirtsleeves—and talking and laughing raucously. One in particular caught her eye, a taller boy sitting on the tabletop and swatting a stouter one away from his tray. He had thick brown hair, a teasing smile, and eyes that sparkled. She tapped Janie on the shoulder. “Who’s the one sitting on the table?”

            “Huh?” Janie glanced up from her meatloaf. “Oh.” She frowned. “That’s Bucky Barnes. Captain of the baseball team. And you don’t need to get any closer to him than this.” Rolling her eyes, she ripped up her bread. “He’s a senior. See that skinny kid on the bench?”

            Victoria frowned, squinting. “In the blue shirt?” His dark brown slacks were two sizes too big for him, and his straw-blonde hair was parted neatly on the right.

            “Yeah.” Janie nodded. “That’s Steve Rogers. He follows Bucky everywhere. He’s actually a pretty swell guy…if he only didn’t hang around—“

            “Excuse me, George Washington High—“ The boy with the nice hair hopped to his feet on top of the table, grinning. “If I could have your attention, please.”

            “Gee, Bucky, don’t do this…” the skinny boy muttered.

            “Too late.” Bucky grabbed his arm and hoisted him up onto the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to announce my best friend, Steve Rogers, has not only been accepted to the Auburndale School of Art, but earned himself a _full_ scholarship!” He was beaming. Steve was bright red. “How about a round of applause, huh?” The other baseball players exploded into applause and whistles. The other tables joined in.

            Janie rolled her eyes and turned back to her food. Victoria smiled to herself and clapped along until Steve clambered down from the table, beet-red to the tips of his ears. When the lunchroom returned to its usual dull roar, she turned to Janie and shrugged. “He doesn’t seem like that bad of a guy…”

            “Trust me,” Janie insisted. “My sister told me all the stories. Bucky Barnes is a no-good greaseball.” She crumpled her napkin and tossed it on her tray. “You ready for your tour?”

 -

            Victoria finished packing her bookbag and closed her locker, thoroughly exhausted from a long day of learning a hundred new names and losing her way repeatedly in the six-story school building. She let out a long breath, turned to go—confident that she could at least find her way to the bus stop—and promptly whacked right into somebody’s back.

            “Hey, kid, look out.” Bucky ran a hand through his hair, turning to look at her with a hint of a smile.

            Victoria swallowed and let out a squeak, fumbling with her books. She dropped three of them in the process.

            He bent down to pick them up. “You okay?”

            Her throat unclenched enough to eke out a “yes…” Embarrassed, she took her books back one by one. “Gosh…I’m so sorry…”

            “No problem.” Bucky shrugged. “You’re the new girl, right?”

            “Yes. My name’s Victoria. Victoria Madrigal.” She did her best not to mumble, feeling her cheeks grow hot.

            “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Victoria Madrigal.” He smiled and offered his hand. “Bucky Barnes.”

            She shook. “N-nice to meet you, too.”

            “Anyone ever call you Vicky?” he asked, leaning against the lockers.

            She shook her head.

            “Mind if I do?”

            She shook her head again.

            “Where’re you from anyway?”

            “Um—“ She swallowed. “Illinois. Freeport.”

            “Oh, yeah?” Bucky cocked an eyebrow. “That a pretty small town?”

            She nodded.

            “How do you like Brooklyn, so far?”

            “It’s…really different.” Victoria found her voice again. “That was a really neat thing you did. At lunch. For your friend?”

            “Thanks.” Someone called Bucky’s name and he pushed off the lockers, waving in their direction. “They got boys in Freeport?”

            She blinked. “Sure.”

            He grinned at her. “Any of them ever take you for ice cream?”

            “Oh—“ she stammered. “N-no…”

            “Mind if I do?”

            Victoria turned bright pink and smiled in spite of herself. “Not at all.”

            “How about tomorrow?” Tugging on his jacket, Bucky stepped backward into the hall and pulled the skinny blonde boy from lunch out of the stream of kids, tousling his hair. “After school? We can walk over to Mikkelson’s and I’ll give you a tour on the way.”

            “Sure.” She clutched her books to her chest and smiled at him. “See you then.”

            “Great. Bye.”

            She watched him disappear into the crowd, thinking, _How bad can he be?_ A minute later, she found she’d missed her bus.

- 

            Steve grimaced. “She’s a _sophomore_?”

            “Yeah. So?”

            “Isn’t she a little young?”

            Bucky shrugged. “I’m not gonna marry her. She’s cute. I wanna take her out. Maybe steal a kiss.”

            Steve frowned. “I thought you were going with Kate DiMarco?”

            “I am. And Stephanie Childers.” He stretched, hopping over a pothole in the sidewalk. “So?”

            “So don’t you think that’s a little unfair?”

            Bucky snorted. “Nah.”

            Rolling his eyes, Steve fiddled with his shirt buttons. “This is why you get drinks thrown at you at every dance.”

            “Only if they find out about each other,” he countered, grinning. “So what’s the harm?”

            “What about—and hear me out—“ Steve said sarcastically, “one woman. For the rest of your life. Just one.”

            “That’s just not my thing, Steve.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Maybe it will be someday, but right now…I’m only eighteen. I’m not thinking about getting married or anything.”

            “Or the future at all,” Steve muttered.

            “Huh?”

            “Nothing.”

            Bucky scowled. “Aw, are you gonna lecture me, too? I’m planning for the future. I sent out all my applications and stuff. I haven’t heard anything back yet.”

            “Still don’t know what you’re gonna study,” Steve pointed out.

            “I’m thinking about it.” He frowned. “Listen, Steve, I’m real proud of you for getting into Auburndale and all, and I know you’re probably thinking nothing but college right now, but you need to relax. Life’s only just getting started. I got plenty of time to figure out what I want to do.”

            “You’re not invincible, Bucky.” Steve tried not to sound too preachy. He knew he’d failed when Bucky rolled his eyes. There was no saving it. “You won’t always be able to float through everything like you do high school—“

            “You think I don’t know that?” Bucky snapped. In the nine years they’d known each other, Steve had never seen him without at least a hint of a good-natured smile, but it was gone and far away now. “You think I’m _floating_ right now, Steve? I’m drowning. I’ve never had more than a C average. I’ve been on academic probation since sophomore year. I work thirty hours a week, because in case you haven’t noticed, it’s a goddamn Depression out there, and otherwise, we can’t afford to keep me in baseball _and_ Becky in debate club _and_ pay for my college applications. You think I’m _floating_?” Never before had Steve been afraid his best friend might hit him, but it was looking more and more likely. “ _Nobody_ has it easy right now, Steve. No one. I know I have it better than a lot of people, believe me. But don’t you _ever_ accuse me of floating. I’m working my _ass_ off. God forbid I do something _I_ like, like take out a cute girl or something, every now and then. I have it so damn easy, I should be going out of my way to be miserable, like everybody else, right?”

            “That’s…” Steve was stunned. “That’s not what I meant.”

            Bucky stared down at his feet. “Then don’t say it like that.”

            “Is…is everything okay, Buck?” Tentatively, Steve tried to catch up with him, though he stayed well out of arm’s reach. “Is there something else bugging you?”

            “I’m fine.” He didn’t break stride.

            “It’s just…” Steve swallowed, not wanting to push. “I’ve never seen you like this.” Bucky didn’t do explosive anger. Irritation, maybe, and stern exasperation, but Steve hadn’t heard him yell since elementary school. “Are you sure you’re okay? I mean, if it’s just me that’s got you riled up, I get it—and I’m sorry I insulted you, either way—but—“

            “I said I’m _fine_ , Steve.” Bucky stopped in front of their building and fumbled for his key, accidentally dropping it into a crack on the sidewalk. He threw up his hands and muttered a couple words that would’ve made their deacon blush before bending down to dig it out.

            Steve shifted uncomfortably. “Okay…Sorry…” He trudged up the stairs, hanging his head. Later that night, when his mother sent him down five flights with the usual “dinner’s ready” announcement, he paused before knocking. Muffled shouting could be heard behind the door to 3F.

            George Barnes had a deep, orotund voice and a Midwestern drawl. He was a normally soft-spoken man, with a gentle smile and a firm handshake, and he tended to hang on to his vowels rather than pausing when he thought. Very rarely did he rush his words. His wife Winifred had a quick, nasal, but not thoroughly unpleasant Brooklyn affect that danced up and down in pitch in whatever way best suited her dramatic purpose. Steve had never heard George yell; he’d heard Winifred yell quite a lot. And just that afternoon, he’d heard Bucky yell for the first time in years. He almost didn’t recognize George’s voice.

            “Don’t give me that line! You have _no_ direction, _no_ interests, _no_ plans—“

            “That doesn’t mean I deserve to stand in a line while some stone-faced bald guy screeches at me!”

            “It’s for your country, Buck! They’ll pay college! Then you can be as shiftless and lazy as you want without it coming out of _our_ pockets!”

            “Yeah? Or I could get a _job_ after graduation—like you did!—and accomplish the same damn thing! Forget it!”

            “I _left_ that job for the army!”

            “Because you were _drafted_! There was a _war_ going on! It’s a Depression, Pop! War’s the last thing anybody needs!”

            “Have you heard what’s going on overseas?! You never know!”

            “Gosh, well, in that case, sign me up tomorrow! If there’s an even _bigger_ possibility I’ll get killed!”

            “Now, listen here, pal—“

            “Jesus Christ, here we go.”

            “Dammit, you can’t just goof off and drink and play baseball for the rest of your life! You’re an _adult_!”

            “So I’ll get a job! And work to pay off college, rather than selling the government my blood, sweat, and tears to do it!”

            “Buck—“

            “Aw, what? Adults don’t get jobs anymore?”

            “Just _listen_!”

            “I’m not _joining_ the fucking _army_!”

            “JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, YOU DO NOT USE THOSE WORDS WITH YOUR FATHER!”

            “Easy, Winnie. He’s just worked up.”

            Before it went any further, Steve decided to intervene. He knocked. All the voices immediately hushed. There was the sound of stomping footsteps, slowly dying away. Then Winnie opened the door, red-faced, her squiggly brown hair coming loose from its ponytail. She leaned in the doorway a minute to catch her breath, then managed a weak smile. “Steve, sweetheart.”

            He swallowed the millions of questions bubbling up in his throat. “Uh, dinner’s ready. If you guys wanna come up.”

            “Sure, sure.” She nodded slowly, glancing over her shoulder. Steve could see past her that George sat at the kitchen table, face in his hands. Bucky was nowhere to be seen. “We’ll be up in a sec. Tell your ma it’s just me and George tonight. Rebecca’s at a friend’s and James doesn’t want to take a break from homework.”

            Steve almost frowned at the lie, but he nodded. “Okay.” His mom would make him take a plate down to Bucky the minute he reported the absence. He’d ask then. 


	6. Bar Fights

~~1939~~

            Bucky didn’t have much time to ask Steve what he’d been up to while Bucky had been in basic, since his friend had picked him up at Grand Central and taken him straight to Devlin’s. They weren’t in the bar half an hour before he figured it out on his own.

            “The lady _said_ she didn’t want a drink!” Throwing himself between the aforementioned lady and the six-foot gorilla talking to her, Steve pushed the barstool into the other guy’s gut. “Leave her _alone_.”

            “Fuck off, shrimpo.” The guy threw the stool to one side, rolling up his sleeves. “She don’t wanna talk to you.”

            “She told ya to get lost.” Steve scowled, clenching his fists.

            “Yeah.” The guy smirked around the toothpick bouncing between his lips. “I was plannin’ to convince her otherwise.” He waggled his eyebrows at the girl, who was trying to make herself as small as possible on her barstool. “Ain’t that right, doll?”

            _Splash_.

            Satisfied, Steve dropped the empty beer stein back on the table, its contents now streaming down the barfly’s reddened cheeks in tiny rivulets.

            “You little _shit_!”

            He full-on tackled Steve, shoulder-checking him into the table and knocking it over. The girl let out a shriek and leapt out of her chair, colliding with Bucky’s arm before toppling over. He caught her and helped her to her feet, keeping his eyes on the fight. The guy was twice Steve’s size and easily three times his weight, landing punches that sounded like a baseball bat on pretzel sticks. Steve was throwing back, but a good knock to his head had messed with his aim, and he spent more time flailing than landing blows.

            “Oh, gosh—“ the girl breathed, clinging unconsciously to Bucky’s arm. “That poor little guy…” Her accent was from Queens, and she wore pink lipstick, the expensive department-store kind. “That’s my ex-boyfriend. He’s a real goon.”

            “It’ll be okay, miss.” Bucky winced, partly at the sounds Steve’s body was making, and partly at the words his mouth was making. “Are you okay?”

            “Yeah.” She nodded shakily, smoothing her dress. “Thank you.”

            “Good.” Pouring the contents of his beer bottle into the weaponized stein, Bucky handed it to her. “What’s your ex’s name?”

            “Vinnie.” She blinked. “Vinnie DiMarco.”

            “Shit.” Bucky winced again, moving closer to the fight and hefting the bottle. “Figures.”

            “What figures?”

            He gave a wry laugh. “I dated his sister.”

 -

            Steve spit a mouthful of blood into DiMarco’s face and lurched up, cracking him square in the nose with his forehead. Dazed, DiMarco tottered backward, eyes rolling and blood streaming from his nose. Steve took the opportunity to struggle to his feet and blink his own blood from his eyes. He had barely cleared his head when DiMarco narrowed his eyes and grabbed him by the collar. Steve’s toes brushed the hardwood. Then something collided with DiMarco’s skull with a resounding _bonk_ , and he staggered, turning around.

            “I’m gonna give you one shot,” Bucky drawled, rolling up his sleeves. “Put him down, Vinnie.”

            “Ey, yeah?” Dropping Steve onto the bar floor like a sack of flour, DiMarco turned to face him, sneering. “Barnes, I thought I told ya to crawl into a hole an’ die long time ago.”

            “And I thought I told you to quit pickin’ on perfectly nice girls, ya ugly goombah,” Bucky retorted.

            DiMarco laughed, kicking Steve in the ribs to throw him closer to Bucky. “I don’ think you met this dame. She ain’t nice at all.”

            “Hey, fuck you—“ Steve rolled to his knees and lunged for DiMarco’s.

            Bucky caught him by the collar. “C’mon, Steve. I’m takin’ you home.” He glanced over his shoulder at DiMarco’s ex and nodded toward the door. “You headin’ out, miss?”

            She nodded, clutching her purse.

            He smiled reassuringly. “We’ll walk you home.”

            DiMarco shoved him in the chest hard enough to bruise. “The hell you will. That’s my girl, an’ she don’t like froo-froo McWops gettin’ into her business.”

            “DON’T YOU CALL HIM THAT!” Tearing out of Bucky’s grip—ripping his shirt in the process—Steve threw himself at DiMarco, clawing at his face. Before Bucky could intervene, DiMarco swiped to throw him off, backhanding Steve in the throat and sending him to his knees on the floor, coughing and wheezing.

            Vinnie DiMarco’s jaw made a crunching sound under Bucky’s knuckles. One more good sock, and he was on the floor moaning. Without another word, Bucky scooped Steve up by the tatters of his collar and pulled him out.

            Scowling, Steve tried to get in one more good kick as they passed DiMarco on the floor, shouting, “Don’t ever let me catch you in here again!”

            Bucky dragged him out to the street and sat him on a bench, feeling his chest worriedly for crackles. “Are you okay? Can you breathe? C’mon—in for four—“

            “I’m fine, Buck.” Grumpy, Steve swatted his hands away, nodding to the sidewalk behind him. “You should be worried about her.”

            “You’re _not_ fine. He hit you in the throat—“ Glancing behind him, Bucky saw DiMarco’s ex hovering by the street sign. “He’s got asthma,” he explained, straightening up. “If he can’t breathe, he could have an attack, and we don’t got his medicine, so…”

            “Yeah.” She played with her hands. She wore a lot of rings and they jingled against one another. “Well, I just wanted to say thank you. Vinnie’s a heel. I didn’t know how to get him to stop botherin’ me.”

            “Sure.” Bucky nodded.

            “No problem,” Steve piped up.

            “I hope he didn’t mess you up too bad.” She was very pretty. Her hair was done in pin curls and she had an hourglass figure under a dress that looked more expensive than Steve’s college. She even had painted nails—the same shade of pink as her lipstick and the apples in her cheeks. “I’m Carla, by the way.”

            “Bucky Barnes. This is Steve Rogers. Wish we didn’t have to meet like this, honest.” He smirked, clearing his throat. “And if you like, I’d be happy to buy you a drink at a bar with nicer patrons—‘course, _I’ll_ listen if you say no.”

            “That’s sweet.” She winced. “Look, I’m real grateful to you two, but I got lotsa bad experiences with Mc-anythings.” Stepping away, she shrugged. “You seem swell, but…I know better than to take my chances with Mick boys.” Waggling her fingers, she hailed a cab. “Thanks again.”

            Bucky sighed, helped Steve up from the bench and acted as his crutch as they hobbled toward the subway stop.

~~2014~~

            Bucky didn’t have much time to ask Steve what he’d missed while he was checking in with Natasha, since his boyfriend had disappeared into the crowd at 230 Fifth. He hadn’t wandered the rooftop half a minute before he figured it out on his own.

            “I’m gonna ask you one more time, son,” Steve was growling to the terrified young man he was holding by the collar of his Oxford shirt. The kid had a tattoo of two Asian symbols on the inside of his left wrist, and his sandal-clad feet were kicking the air. Steve shook him a little, visibly bristling. “What did you put in her drink?”

            “Nothing!” The kid squirmed, scowling. “I didn’t do anything, bro! I was just talking to her!”

            “She didn’t seem like she wanted to talk back,” Steve pointed out.

            “I don’t know why you were watching, man, but I was being nothing but nice to her,” the kid insisted.

            “Until she went away and you dropped a little white pill in her glass.” With his free hand, Steve felt the kid’s shirt pocket. “I’m guessing there’s more where that came from?”

            “Get off of me!”

            The girl came back from the bathroom then, frowning at the scene at her table. Leaning over to Bucky, she asked, “What happened?”   
            “Hang on—“ Bucky tapped Steve on the shoulder. “Put him down. You’re makin’ a scene.”

            Steve hesitated but relented, setting the kid back down and moving the girl’s drink out of his reach. “I saw him put something in your drink, miss. Just so you know.”

            “What?!” Mouth dropping open, she grabbed her drink, stalked around the table, and promptly dumped it on the kid’s head, slapping him in the face with the napkin.

            Gasping, he mopped uselessly at his face, wrinkling his nose and spitting, “You _bitch!_ ”

            In one fluid motion, Steve slammed the kid against the wall, taking the bag of pills from his shirt pocket and his brand-new StarkPhone from his hip pocket. Pushing him away, the kid turned to the girl and started yelling. Steve very calmly hit two buttons on the cell phone and held it up very carefully while he did.

            “You stupid cunt, you ruined my shirt! You’re just gonna believe this asshole even though I’ve been nothing but nice to you all night? I wouldn’t even _want_ to date-rape you! You have no tits and you dress like a tranny! This is bullshit—I’m suing you all for assault!”

            When the kid tired himself out, Steve stopped recording, took a picture of the pill bag, and started typing on the phone.

            “Hey—“ The kid lunged for his phone. “What the fuck are you doing?”

            “Sending your little rant and those pills to your mother,” Steve replied simply, pressing send and handing the phone back. “Along with a note about how her son treats women. And in case she doesn’t see it, I also posted it to your Facebook page.”

            “What the _fuck_ —“ Furiously stuffing his phone back in his pocket, the kid threw himself at Steve, only to clothesline himself on solid adamantium.

            “That’s enough,” Bucky snapped, holding Steve back just in case. “Miss, we’ll get you a new drink on the house. Go find your friends.” She nodded and melted into the crowd. “Son, you better get your shit together. The police are coming, and I’m givin’ them you and your drugs.”

            The kid’s eyes widened. “Wait—“

            “Shut up.” Turning around, Bucky pointed at the door to the stairwell. “Steve, we’re going home.”

            “But—“ Steve frowned. “We can stay if they’re gonna arrest him. Problem solved.”

            The kid snorted, confidence renewed. “They’re not gonna _arrest_ me. There’s no proof I did anything.” He spat at Bucky’s feet. “You’re a lying faggot.”

            Bucky felt Steve stiffen, saw the aluminum railing crumple in his hand. When he spoke, his voice was low and hard. “Don’t you call him that.”

            “Why not?” the kid taunted, jutting his wispy chin into Steve’s face. “It’s what he is. A faggot.” His eyes landed on the fingers of Bucky’s left hand, gleaming under his sweater sleeve. He snorted. “And a cripple.”

            Steve lunged—

            —his head cracked against the base of a table as Bucky’s shoulder drove him into the ground. It happened so fast, no one else even had time to move. As the aforementioned police pulled up out front, Bucky pinned Steve’s arms to his sides and yelled, “ARE YOU CRAZY?!”

            Steve didn’t answer, only looked away.

            The crowd had parted around them like the Red Sea, and they had an audience. Bucky got off just as the police came to the rooftop bar, looking confused. Steve stayed on the ground.

“Captain? We got a call.”

            “That’s him.” Bucky pointed the kid, who looked very small now, out to the cops. “Here.” He tossed the bag of pills to the nearest officer, then rolled up the sleeves of his sweater. “Can you take it from here?”

            One of the officers led the kid toward the stairs. The other nodded. “We’ve got it. Thanks, Sergeant.”

            “No, thank you, boys.” Managing a smile, Bucky scooped Steve up onto his shoulder and followed them to the stairs. “The Captain’s had a little to drink. I’m gonna take him home.”

 -

            The drive home was a silent one. Steve broke it, uncomfortable. “I wasn’t gonna hurt him.”

            “You coulda killed him.”

            “I was just gonna grab him and…” He sighed. “Probably lecture him, if I’m being honest.”

            “Because of what he said?”

            “Buck, he _called_ you—“

            “You think I don’t hear that shit all the time?” Bucky exploded, gripping the wheel so the plastic squeaked and half his knuckles turned white. “There’s always words, Steve. Mick, Paddy, Taig—faggot, cripple, whore—it’s all the same. It doesn’t mean anything.”

            “People like him, they think they can do whatever they want. They’re bullies, they don’t care how they treat people. During the war, it was the big guys. Now, it’s the rich, snobby creeps. But they’re all the same.” Steve frowned out the window. “He could’ve really hurt that girl.”

            “I know.” Bucky sighed. “You did the right thing. And you put the fear’a God into his heart for the future, I’m sure. But you gotta keep an eye on yourself. Especially because people’ll think you just did it for me—“

            “I did.”

            He sighed again, exponentially more tired than the first. “Steve, this country can’t decide whether to love or hate me, but if you start beatin’ up defenseless rich boys in Manhattan bars for me, they’re gonna choose real damn quick.”

            Steve was quiet for a while. “I lost my head.”

            Bucky snorted. “I’ll say you did.”

            “I did. I forgot about all that. About everything. Or I wasn’t thinking about it.”

            “What _were_ you thinking?”

            He looked away from the window, eyes resting on the steering wheel. On the glint of the metal fingers resting at twelve, roving down to the hand curled in Bucky’s lap. Gripping his right knee, the one with the weak tendon, that always bothered him more when he was tense. He ran his fingers over the back of Bucky’s hand, laying them into the spaces between his. “I was thinking,” he said after a long time, “this time… _I’d_ be able to protect _you_.”

            “Steve…” Bucky’s hand flinched away from his. “You don’t have to protect me.”

            He didn’t try to take Bucky’s hand again, and he didn’t say it out loud. But he thought it while he watched Bucky drive home. He looked at the barely-noticeable shadows under Bucky’s eyes and thought about all the nightmares folded into them, all the pills he needed to keep him from spending the whole night shaking in terror, and all the pills he forgot to take that left him lying awake, holding very still so as not to wake Steve. He looked at the faint scars peeking through Bucky’s collar and thought of the HYDRA footage that showed them being scorched into his skin, carved into his muscles, drilled into his skull, and he looked at the metal below them and thought of Bucky’s finger-twitch and spine-shudder combo anytime he came too close to touching someone—especially someone he loved—with the wrong hand, even though his daughter wouldn’t fall asleep without the feel of metal on her cheek. He looked at the silver chain of the medal that was always hidden under Bucky’s shirt and thought of the scripture he whispered to himself when he thought Steve was sleeping, of the ratty old Bible he kept next to his journal just so he could go back and read his parents’ words in the margins with the same desperation as he did the verses, of the time he went missing the first time he relapsed and Steve found him in the confession booth in St Brigid’s, crying. He didn’t say it out loud, but he looked at all of Bucky’s wounds, bleeding into the open air, and thought, _Yes, I do._


	7. Asth

~~1931~~

            When the bell rang for recess, a group of eighteen boys at Lower Brooklyn Junior High left everything at their lunch tables and bolted for the playground. Not because they had any interest in using it—as eighth graders, they were evolved above the need for a playground and other “baby” games. But the big metal basket of equipment was always placed at the edge of the playground five minutes before the end of lunch, and none of them had any desire to return to their elementary-school days of playing with a mere stick and tennis ball. The first two boys that had the speed, cunning, and will to grab bats were always, as was agreed upon, team captains, and the first to find a ball got first pick. Today, that was Morris Clearwater and Johnny O’Malley, and Johnny found the ball.

            “I want Bucky,” he said immediately, before the others even had a chance to line up. A few kids groaned.

            Morris frowned but considered it a minor setback. “I get Willy.”

           “Paulie.”

            “Mikey.”

            “Jack.”

            “Arnie.”

            “Carl.”

            “Louie.”

            “Robbie.”

            “Joey.”

            “Eddy.”

            The boys joined their team captains quickly, one by one. They only had an hour for recess, and if the teams weren’t chosen fast, they’d barely get in one inning. Steve caught up about halfway through, winded from running to join them. He’d left the cafeteria late, having stayed behind to carry eighteen trays, plus his own, in three trips, to the lunch lady’s window. Eddy Clark grumbled a little and rolled his eyes when Steve showed up, and received a swift punch in the kidney for his troubles. The team captains exchanged a glance. Morris shrugged and pointed to a boy with mustard stains on his hand-me-down red shirt. “Ray.”

            “Frankie.” The short, freckle-faced druggist’s short, freckle-faced son bounced over to Johnny’s team. Then Johnny paused. There were three boys left in line: Kenny Abrahams, Larry Jackson, and Steve Rogers. “We got nineteen. There’s one left over.”

            “Or we can rotate.” Morris shrugged. “I got Kenny.”

            Bucky nudged Johnny in the ribs and whispered in his ear. The other boy gave a pained look but, not wanting the same bruise quickly forming on Eddy Clark’s ribcage, nodded in assent. Johnny pointed. “Then we got Jackson and Rogers.”

            “No fair!” Arnie Goldman clenched his fists. “You can’t pick two at once.”

            “Is too fair,” Paulie Taylor insisted. “We took Rogers, so we get the extra player.”

            “Only one stick per team,” Louie Chapman snorted. “Them’s the rules.”

            “Hey, you wanna shut up?” Steve scowled. “I can pitch.”

            “Sure. Only twice, though, before you run out of arms to break,” Louie shot back.

            If Bucky hadn’t been hanging on tight to the back of his shirt, Steve would’ve thrown himself on the other boy right then and there. “C’mon, lay off.” Bucky yanked him back and took the ball from his team captain, tossing it in Louie’s rosy-cheeked face. “Let’s just play, huh? Who’s fielding first?”

            “We don’t got much time,” Morris pointed out. “Bucky’s right. You guys field first. Rogers is right, Louie. He sure can pitch.”

            “Aw, he’s all talk. Says he can run, too, on those skinny chicken legs—“

            “You crumb!” Again, Bucky had to drag Steve away from the other boy. He gave up struggling and kicked dust at Louie instead. “You wanna play? Why don’t you bat first, Chapman? I’ll show ya.”

            Louie did bat first, and Steve threw him a heater that nearly scorched his eyebrows. If he hadn’t swung at the same time he flinched, it would’ve broken the catcher’s fingers. Instead, it sailed hard to third base, where Bucky caught it and sent him slinking back to the fence. With that, Steve Rogers, polio survivor, set the tone for the rest of the game; when his team was up, he was a guaranteed out, but as long as he was pitching, the other team was lucky to get on base. Louie quit after his first out, so Johnny traded Robbie Harris to Morris’ team, which meant Steve was always in play, which had never happened before. He was sweaty, red, and panting when the bell rang at the end of recess and the second inning, like the rest of them, but beaming wider than anyone. Bucky fluttered around him worriedly, significantly less red although arguably sweatier, but a few aches in his legs and pitching arm could hardly dampen Steve’s mood. The smile lasted all the way through their next two lessons.

            So did the panting. The other boys in their respective classrooms had resumed normal breathing and coloration by about an hour after recess, but Steve couldn’t seem to catch his breath. It seemed to whistle in his throat, and the more he tried to stabilize it, the tighter his chest felt, like his lungs were swelling and trying to escape. He tried not to draw too much attention, undoing a couple buttons on his shirt to give his chest more room, but after a while, it became too hard not to panic. He wheezed and clawed at his chest, unable to get any air, and unable to get the teacher’s attention from the back of the class. Luckily, he didn’t have to.

            Bucky finished giving up on his vocabulary sheet and stretched, hoping Mr Turner wouldn’t take it as an invitation to check his paper. He heard the frenzied gasping in the back of the room and turned curiously to see Steve doubled over on his desk, cheeks red and eyes wide with terror. He was halfway to the back of the room before he even noticed. “Steve! Gosh—“

            “James, please sit down.”

            “Sorry, sir.” Bucky made no move to go back to his seat, instead taking a knee next to Steve. “What’s wrong? Is it your asthma?”

            Throat closing up, Steve nodded frantically.

            The teacher frowned, standing up from his desk and making his way over worriedly. “Is he all right?”

            “Sorry, Mr T. He’s got this breathing disease—“ Pawing at Steve’s arm, Bucky tried to keep his lip from trembling. “Steve? What do I do?”

            “Take him to the nurse, James. Go.”

            Nodding, Bucky threw Steve’s skinny arm around his shoulders and hoisted him out of the desk, helping him to the door. They’d gotten no more than four steps down the hall before Steve’s legs wobbled, and Bucky decided to just scoop him up, carrying him to the nurse’s office like a baby. She wouldn’t let Bucky stay in the room after he laid his friend on the cot, insisting he go back to class. Instead, he sat outside the main office, staring at his knees. The bell rang for the start of seventh period, and he didn’t move. The bell rang for the end of the day, and he didn’t move. Steve still hadn’t come out.

            Around four o’clock, the sound of heels clacking through the front doors made Bucky look up. Sarah Rogers was still in her factory uniform: coiffed hair in a net, blue blouse, black skirt, black hose, black heels. Her gloves poked out of the pocket of her white apron. There was cotton dust in the worry lines on her forehead. She paused at the entrance to the office to help Bucky to his feet. “James? What are you still doing here? Your mother’s worried sick.”

            He buried his face in her apron, immediately breaking down into tears. “I-I’m sorry—we were playing outside and—he was running a lot and—he couldn’t breathe—I brought him here—he hasn’t come out and she won’t let me in and I should’ve told him not to and I’m—I don’t know—I don’t know if he’s okay, I—I’m sorry—“

            “Shh…” Sarah bent down, wiping his eyes with the clean part of her sleeve. “Everything’s okay. The school called me at work because they can’t send him home without a parent’s permission. I wasn’t able to get down here until now. Steve’s gonna be okay, honey. They just needed me to come and get him.” She smiled softly and squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you for staying with him.”

            “B-but I didn’t—“ Bucky took a shuddery breath, sniffling. “She wouldn’t let me in…”

            “That’s okay.” Sarah stood and gave him a reassuring nod. “I’ve got a cab waiting. We’ll stop back at the building so your mother knows where you are, then I’m gonna take you boys for some ice cream, okay?”

            He nodded slowly. “Is…is Steve okay?”

            “I’m fine. Hi, Mom.” A little pale and clammy but mostly steady, Steve came out of the nurse’s office, holding a paper bag. “She gave me some medicine and told me to breathe slowly. That’s all.” The nurse beckoned his mother over to sign a few things.

            “Are you _really_ okay?” Bucky hissed under his breath, watching the nurse warily.

            Steve nodded, wiping his nose and taking a few breaths from the bag. “Did I hear something about ice cream?”


	8. 4F/1A

~~1936~~

            “Steve?” Bucky tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter and ran water over a towel, blotting the coal dust from his forehead. Receiving no answer, he moved out of the kitchenette, stripping off his filthy, sweat-soaked work shirt and throwing into a pile of similar rags. The room was empty. The covers on the bed were rumpled, so Steve was awake. Usually, he would be hunched over the desk that donated half its surface area to the massive brass lamp scavenged from a Manhattan dumpster. There was something wrong with its circuitry, in that it only worked every third pull of the cord, but a free lamp was a free lamp.

            Bucky pulled aside the holey blanket over the window to see if Steve might have chosen the windowsill to draw (and give his roommate a heart attack). The window was shut—which was a relief, because it was December, and the cold tended to have a negative effect on Steve’s breathing, in that he couldn’t when it was.

            Returning to the kitchen to rinse off his washcloth, Bucky searched the counters and cupboards for a note. Coming up empty, he gave up on finding his roommate and filled a pot with water, setting it on the stove and taking a lighter to the half-burnt wood inside. He set a towel down on the linoleum and stripped down, balling up his dusty, damp clothes and tossing them into the laundry pile. Taking the cleanest rag off the edge of the bathtub, Bucky stood on the towel in the middle of the kitchen, scrubbing the coal dust and subway grime off himself.

            The steam rising off the stove loosened something in his throat, and twice he stopped to cough up a handful of black dust trapped in yellowish phlegm. It took two and a half rags to get off the worst of the muck off his skin. Bucky assumed his next paycheck would go to laundry, since nearly all his clothes were more coal than cloth. Snuffing out the belly of the stove, he used the last of the water to rinse his hair, which involved an interesting—to say the least—contortion of his spine to get his head in the bottom four inches of water without touching any bare skin to the hot metal of the stove.

            Of course Steve chose that moment to come home.

            Bucky didn’t hear the key turn in the lock, nor the steps of Steve’s too-big shoes on the linoleum, but he did hear his roommate’s hysterical laughter, which made him uncurl and remove his head from the pot. “ _There_ you are. What’s so funny?”

            “Y’know, Buck,” Steve panted, wiping his eyes, “Most people kinda, like—“ He pantomimed picking up the pot and pouring water on his head. “You get it?”

            “That takes too long to clean up,” Bucky insisted, grabbing a dishtowel to dry off his hair. “And if I let it air-dry, we’ll get mold again. The super already hates me.”

            “Probably shouldn’t have slept with his daughter,” Steve offered.

            “Thanks.”

            “Sure.”

            Stepping off the floor-towel to wrap it around his waist instead, Bucky noticed the manila folder under Steve’s arm. “Where were you? Employment office?”

            “No.”

            Frowning, he followed Steve into the bedroom. “What’s that folder, then?”

            Steve muttered something unintelligible and threw a clean shirt at him.

            Bucky mumbled back mockingly and slipped it on. “Really, though.”

            With a sigh, Steve dropped the folder on the nightstand and started making the bed. “Enlistment papers.”

            “ _Enlistment_ papers?!” Bucky froze, digging through the closet for pants. “For the army?”

            Steve nodded.

            “Steve, you—you can’t join the _army_!” Bucky spluttered. “First of all, they’ll never take you—and second, basic training would _kill_ you—“

            “Yeah,” Steve muttered. “That’s what they said, too. They can’t take asthmatics…or anaemics…or polio survivors…”

            “…oh.” Steve’s crestfallen look registered, and Bucky paused. “Sorry.”

            “It’s fine.” He shrugged, keeping his eyes glued to the comforter and his jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”

            Bucky got dressed in silence, trying to think of ways to cheer Steve up. It was the wrong season for Coney Island, but he supposed he could forego the electric bill for a few days and take Steve to the art museum. They’d just sleep in the kitchen, by the woodstove, for the week until he got his next check.

            Steve would be mad when he found out—since he assumed Bucky never sprung for the “extras” (museum visits, cab rides, clothes) unless they actually _had_ the cash. He was also guaranteed to get a lecture about his lack of responsibility with money, complete with reluctant pointings-out of his faults interspersed with hasty apologies. What Steve didn’t know, since he didn’t handle the money, was that they never had anything even close to extra cash, and that while Bucky was irresponsible in a lot of ways, money wasn’t necessarily one of them. He preferred to think of it as investing in what was really important. Their neighbours were nice enough that they could do without water or power for a while. Steve’s textbooks, sketchbooks, and those pencils he liked from the art supply store in Manhattan—those were the things they needed to get by. Bucky would have—and had—gone without food to pay Steve’s medical bills. He could rationalize, because an unhealthy Steve was a lot more expensive than a marginally-healthy Steve, but Bucky had to admit, if not out loud, that Steve’s happiness motivated him more than just about anything. It had taken weeks of begging after the funeral to wear Steve down enough to agree to move in together. Bucky had to make sure he hadn’t done it in vain.

            He listened to Steve rant about doing his duty and serving his country while surreptitiously making him the last cup of instant cocoa with the last of the milk. Steve didn’t protest, only clung to the mug to warm his hands, which were pinched and red from the cold. He had switched on the radio and sat huddled in the center of the bed, thawing his rosy cheeks with the steam from the cocoa and listening to some violin-heavy classical piece.

            “You got homework?” Bucky asked, scribbling away at the grocery list.

            Steve nodded. “Just an artist’s statement. And that still-life I’ve been working on. But I’d have to walk down to Auburndale for that. The light’s not the same here.”

            “Get on that statement.” Grabbing his coat and key, Bucky turned down the stove so it wouldn’t smoke too much. “I’m going out for a bit, then I got a surprise for you.”

            Steve frowned. “You know I hate surprises.”

            “Aw, quit being such a grump.” Bucky rolled his eyes, grabbing his wallet and the brown envelope that held his paycheck. “You’ll like this one.”

            “Bucky?” Steve took a sip of cocoa, pulling the sheets around himself. “Is this a surprise we can afford?”

            “Yeah, look.” Halfway out the door, Bucky dangled the envelope where Steve could see it. “Just got paid. Don’t worry about it.”

 -

            Stuffing the tickets into the empty brown envelope, Bucky was about to step onto the blue train home when he heard what sounded like someone calling his name. He paused.

            “Bucky?”

            He saw the girl waving and stepped away from the train. She ran up to him, pink-cheeked and smiling. “Well,” she said, adjusting her fur cap so he could see her bright blue eyes. “If it isn’t old Bucky Barnes. Fancy running into you.”

            He recognized her freckled cheeks and unruly black hair almost immediately. “Macie? Gosh, I haven’t seen you since graduation…I thought you were in Pennsylvania.” Carefully, he stepped out of the flow of people, leaning against a subway map.

            She followed suit. “I’m home for winter break. Staying with my parents until the twenty-first. What about you? Weren’t you going to Michigan?”

            “Uh…no. That fell through,” he admitted. “I decided to work instead. I got a job with the city. A maintenance gig.”

            “Oh…well…That’s good,” Macie offered. She thought for a second, biting her lip. “You know, I’m glad I ran into you, actually.”

            Bucky cocked an eyebrow. “You are?”

            “Yes—I wanted to see you this summer, to talk, but everyone said you were working a lot, and I had so much to do with preparing for school…” Macie trailed off, chewing on her lip again. “Do you have a second? Could we go somewhere to talk?”

            He hesitated. Steve was waiting, and though it was still early, he didn’t want to risk the museum closing. But Macie looked so anxious, he couldn’t help but agree. He followed her to a small bistro just aboveground from the Fulton St hub, sitting across from her and politely declining the three times she tried to buy him a coffee.

            “I know we had our…issues…in high school,” she began. “But I’m majoring in psychology now—switched from pre-med—and I was doing this paper on repressed feelings and how they can manifest as aggression, and I realized, I never asked you _why_ you teased me so much…and maybe if I had, I could’ve helped you.” With what was undoubtedly supposed to be a comforting smile, Macie reached across the table and touched his hand. “So I want to talk, Bucky. I want to find out what’s wrong, why you lash out.” Squeezing his hand, she added, “I’m here for you.”

            He burst out laughing.

            Macie’s mouth twitched into a momentary frown, but she shook it off. “I mean it.”

            “I bet you do,” he choked out, wiping his eyes. When he regained his composure, Bucky shook his head. “Aw, brother…You think I was lashing out at you?”

            She looked confused. “Well, you spent all that time teasing me…talking about running away together and asking me to movies and taking my books…Pretending you were in love with me?”

            “I was teasing you!” he insisted. “Because I _was_ in love with you!”

            Macie scowled. “Bucky, I’m serious. I just want to help you. You don’t need to get defensive—“

            “I’m not getting defensive.” Shaking his head, he did his best to keep the smirk off his face. “I was sweet on you since freshman year. I only approached you the way I did ‘cause I knew you’d never notice me otherwise.”

            Her jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.” Staring at him, she said it again: “You’re _kidding_.”

            He shrugged. “Why d’you think I kept asking you out? I probably could’ve been less obnoxious, but I really did like you, Macie.”

            Pushing her glasses up on her nose, Macie reddened a little. “I thought you were trying to trick me…Like you thought you were so hot, I’d get my hopes up over dating you, and then you’d knock me down…”

            “Jesus Christ, baby. You been reading too many magazines.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “All the guys thought it was it was a joke, too. Guess I can’t really blame you.”

            “Guess not,” Macie murmured, eyes now fixed, perplexedly, on her coffee mug.

            Bucky got up, slipping on his coat. “Nice seeing you, though. Sorry you didn’t get to use your psycho knowledge on me.” He didn’t want to be rude, but he had to get back to Steve.

            “Psychology,” Macie corrected. It seemed to snap her awake, and she stood up. “Bucky—“

            He paused at the door. She fumbled with her scarf and muffler, leaving money for the coffee. “I-If you’re not doing anything tonight,” she mumbled, cheeks turning pink beneath her freckles, “M-my father is the accountant for the Dodgers, now, and there’s—kind of a party—tonight? With the team and the managers and stuff. A Christmas party.”

            “It’s January.” He cocked an eyebrow. “And aren’t you Jewish?”

            “Well, yes, but there’s nothing in the Torah that says we can’t go to parties—“ Macie shook her head and smiled shyly. “I was wondering…maybe…I mean, I could ask if you could come with…if you want.”

            Bucky let out his breath. His nine-year-old self would’ve kicked him upside the head for even considering _not_ going to a party with the Brooklyn Dodgers, the team he’d dreamed of playing for since he was big enough to hold a baseball. And Macie—he couldn’t deny he was still a little crazy about her. Sure, she was a little nutty, a little bookish, but she was brilliant, and sweet, and probably the most beautiful girl with Coke-bottle glasses he’d ever seen. But on the other hand, this smart, crazy, gorgeous girl came from a family of college-educated, well-to-do, old English Jewish money, and had probably been telling sob stories about the dirt-poor, Irish Catholic boy who’d been teasing her for four years, And on the other hand, the look on Steve’s face when he found out Bucky had ditched him for yet another girl, when he was already upset about the army, would be too much to bear; Bucky felt sick just thinking about it. It wasn’t the first time he’d been tempted to cast off eighteen years’ worth of splashing around in the gutter and take a nip of champagne—not the first time he’d been tempted to leave Steve behind. Each time he was torn between wanting—whether it was fun, popularity, or some impossible opportunity—and not wanting to want; each time, he let his mind run wild. What if _this_ was the time? What if _this_ was his chance to escape the subway tunnels and chase that improbable dream of joining the major leagues as the Dodgers’ lead-off hitter and settling down with Macie with a house and a dog and two-point-five kids? And as he had every time before, Bucky found himself confused by what he wanted versus what he _should_ have wanted. Because for as nice as it sounded, as nice of a picture as it made in his head, no so-called dream was worth losing Steve. Bucky didn’t know where he was headed or even where he _wanted_ to go, but he knew he wanted to be happy. And he knew he didn’t want to be happy if he didn’t have Steve.

            He thought for a second, then shook his head. “Sorry, Macie.” With a sheepish grin, he added, “I kinda already made plans.”

 -

            The art museum took Steve’s mind miles away from his 4F. He dragged Bucky by the wrist through every collection, stopping at nearly every piece to rattle off a thousand words Bucky didn’t understand in his most excited but hushed tone. He sometimes got the colours wrong, but his knowledge and enthusiasm were impressive, and he never stopped smiling—he was still beaming when they broke out of the double doors onto the chilly street. Steve babbled the whole subway ride home, drawn off on a tangent about impressionist technique and the importance of light in landscape paintings. Bucky only listened and nodded along, smiling at the sparkle in Steve’s eyes and the way his thin fingers flew as he talked.

            When they climbed back aboveground to walk the final four blocks home, Steve had run out of steam, instead lapsing into a quiet, contented reverie. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, though he didn’t shiver unless he thought Bucky wasn’t looking. A light, gentle snow began to fall, fat, heavy flakes lodging in Steve’s hair and the thick blue scarf his mother had made him four Christmases prior. A few stuck in his lashes, making him wrinkle his nose and blink them away.

            Bucky laughed. “Feeling better?”

            “Much.” Steve closed his eyes for a moment, smiling serenely. “I’ll pay you back for the ticket tomorrow.”

            “Nah.” He shrugged. “Call it a gift.”

            Steve considered protesting for a second, but decided to let it be. “Thanks.”

            “’Course.”

            Steve was only a little winded by the time they reached their building, but Bucky made him stop and rest in the lobby all the same. Steve pouted, but he sat down. He pouted more when Bucky insisted he move to a chair closer to the tiny brick fireplace, but he did it, handing Bucky his wet scarf and hat and nodding and smiling his way through yet another lecture about the importance of not forgetting his damn gloves. Warming his hands by the flames, Steve glanced over his shoulder, watching Bucky in the act of sneaking his own coat onto Steve’s shoulders, and asked, “Did you eat?”

            Bucky had to think about that. He knew he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, which had been half a pot of coffee and two day-old shortening biscuits. But he also knew the contents of his wallet—about three dollars—had to last til the end of the week, and all they had in the apartment were some potatoes, half a bag of flour, and a few partially-rotten eggs. “Yeah,” he said finally, nodding. “I got a sandwich while I was out getting the tickets.”

            “So that’s why it took you so long,” Steve teased.

            “Aw, shut up.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “The big question is, did _you_ eat anything?”

            Steve nodded. “I went down to the dining hall at Auburndale. They had tuna casserole.” He swallowed. “Then I picked up the apartment. You sure have a ton of laundry to do.”

            So they were both lying. Bucky determined the best way to avoid an argument was for both to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible. And they did.

 -

            Steve couldn’t handle much in the way of alcohol, and it made his stomach upset, so Bucky limited his intake as much as possible. An easy way to do that was to drink way, way more than him.

            It was better, Bucky reasoned foggily after three-quarters of a whiskey bottle, that he drank at home. Steve had a neat habit of starting fights he couldn’t finish when they went out to bars, and while Bucky didn’t mind coming to his rescue, he didn’t enjoy getting stuck with the tabs of the guys he sent sprawling into the street. And when Steve didn’t have anyone to fight, well…

            Even with less than ten ounces of whiskey in him, Steve was a handsy drunk, and in no time, he’d managed to wriggle out of all of his clothes and into one of Bucky’s few clean shirts, which fit him slightly better than a circus tent. He wormed his way under the covers, groping at Bucky’s chest with popsicle fingers and huddling closer for warmth. At least, Bucky assumed it was for warmth; he had to reconsider when he felt Steve’s lip press against the underside of his jaw. It wasn’t a kiss, not completely, but it was enough to make his cheeks hot and his throat dry.

            “Not drunk,” Steve mumbled, though Bucky hadn’t said anything. “S’okay.” He shifted, and in doing so ground very distractingly against Bucky’s hip. “Try again…try again later.”

            Failing tremendously to ignore Steve’s obvious erection, Bucky frowned. “Huh?”

            “Th’army.” With a long sigh, Steve nuzzled into the hollow of his neck. “L’try again.”

            “Try again?” Resisting the urge to push away—or pull closer, he wasn’t sure—Bucky settled for manually lifting Steve’s head off his chest. “They rejected you. You can’t ‘try again’. They have you on file now, as a 4F.”

            “S’another office,” Steve mumbled. “In Queens. L’try again, witha different las’ name…happens.”

            “You’re gonna lie on your enlistment form?”

            Pouting, Steve put a finger to Bucky’s lips, rolling onto his back and yawning. “Shhh. S’okay. They don’ check it that close. Don’ ask f’r ID or nothin’.” Grinding against Bucky’s hips, he settled back down with a long sigh. “Din’t ask this time.”

            “What?!” Careful not to dump Steve onto the floor, Bucky sat up. “How many times have you _done_ this?”

            “Uh…” Rolling to one side, Steve squinted up at the ceiling and counted on his fingers. “Rogers from Brooklyn in Brooklyn…St Clair from Staten Island in Manhattan…I think next time…I’ll do Philly.”

            “Oh, yeah?” Unimpressed, Bucky reached for the forgotten folder on the nightstand. “Who were you today?”

            “Hey—hey—no—“ Batting at Bucky’s hand, Steve frowned.

            “’Buffalo, New York’,” he read, already preparing a lecture in his head. “’Steven J’—“ With an exasperated sigh, Bucky tossed the folder aside. “Steven J Barnes?”

            Steve giggled. “S’a good name. I like it.”

            “Steve…” Cupping his cheek, Bucky tried to catch his eye. “ _Why_ do you wanna join the army so bad?”

            Screwing up his face, Steve hiccupped and pulled away. “’Cause.”

            “’Cause why?” Gently, he stroked the sweaty hair away from Steve’s forehead.

            “’Cause if I do…then…then maybe you won’ have to.” Steve mumbled, leaning into Bucky’s hand. “’Cause I know you don’ wanna. And you always protect me…’n’ take care of me…I wan’ protect you. ‘N’ everybody,” he added, thinking for a second. Steve yawned widely and dropped forward, snuggling into Bucky’s chest. “But mostly you,” he sighed, and fell asleep.

            Bucky pressed his face to Steve’s hair, breathing in the smell of oil paint and charcoal and whiskey and soap. He thought about Steve’s crestfallen face coming home with his _third_ 4F. He thought about seeing that face again and again, until the US Army either broke Steve’s spirit or got stupid enough to let asthmatics enlist. It made his heart ache. No art museum in the world would cheer Steve up, past a certain threshold of rejection. But if he wasn’t _alone_ in it…

            Four years prior, Bucky had torn a tendon in his right knee from sliding into home a little too hard. Depending on how he wrote it on the enlistment form, and exaggerated his slight limp, Bucky was sure he could get himself disqualified—thereby not only making Steve feel better, but putting an end to his father’s “gentle encouragement” to join the army, once and for all.

            Two weeks later, he walked home cursing, his 1A burning a hole in his pocket.


	9. Pretty Boy

~~1938~~

            Steve had been tentative about leaving the house that morning, but the whoops and catcalls he received walking down Linden Boulevard renewed his confidence. He had spent three years dressing in front of the mirror in the apartment, wondering if his consignment-store skirt would ever see the light of day. It seemed pointless to spend so much time (and money) on makeup in the hour and a half between the time the drugstore closed and the time Bucky got home—and even now, when an empty apartment was the only thing to greet him when he walked home from Luigi’s every night, he never spent more than two hours dressed-up. As terrified as he was to be seen in his candy-pink blouse and burgundy lipstick, he was also desperate, more so than he would’ve liked to admit, to hear praise from someone else. No one had called him pretty since Bucky left for the army.

            It took him a couple tries to get out the door. He checked his hair over and over, straightening and restraightening the flower clip at his temple, touching up his lipstick, straightening his mother’s old tan pleated skirt. The three flights of stairs down to street level were crammed with regrets: he wished he had pumps that fit better and didn’t clack so loudly and noticeably, or tights that weren’t so loose around the knees, or a wig to disguise how short and masculine his hair was. Steve practically tripped out of the apartment building, immediately wishing he’d brought Bucky’s old overcoat to give him the option of hiding. His heart was pounding, blood rushing in his ears as he stepped onto Linden, fists clenched so hard his bracelets jingled and his nails bit into his palms.

            Then he heard it:

            “Whoo! Nice pixie, buttercup!”

            Steve’s cheeks flushed, hot and red, but he smiled in spite of himself, glancing over to where the call had come from. There were a few road workers out front of the Laundromat, hunched over on their shovels and very obviously staring at him. Ignoring the nervous flutters in his chest, Steve lifted a hand and waved back coyly, even going so far as to bat his eyelashes before continuing down the street. He knew talking was off-limits—despite his otherwise lack of traditional masculinity, his voice was deeper than Bucky’s, and that would set some people off. His only plan was to make a loop around the block, just to say he’d done it—he’d gone out dressed-up. And if he could go out, he could do anything.

            The men kept yelling:

            “Show us the leg, sweetheart!”

            “Blow us a kiss!”

            “Aw, that’s a doll!”

            Steve felt the blush creep down his neck and chest. It was crude, less sincere than when Bucky said it, but it made him feel beautiful all the same. He toyed with his string of pearls, biting his bottom lip gently so as not to ruin his lipstick. Turning his face bashfully away, Steve continued down the street, satisfied enough to make the loop to go home.

            He heard footsteps pounding behind him and turned. Two of the road workers had caught up to him, pulling the hard hats off their sweaty hair. One mopped a hand over his scraggly beard and grinned widely. “Hey there, dollface.”

            Steve smiled shyly, turning to keep walking. He didn’t want to be rude, but he knew his voice would give him away.

            A strong hand on his arm yanked him back. The bearded worker snickered. “C’mon, baby. Stay a while. You’re a real looker.”

            “Thanks,” Steve mumbled, a little higher. “But I have to go…”

            “Right now?” Beard pouted, and Steve felt himself being pulled toward the alley. The other worker, clean-shaven with a shock of red hair, followed them leering. “But we just started talkin’.”

            “Ehhh…” Steve tried to pull away, but the man was gripping him too hard. He cleared his throat, trying to muster up a higher voice to protest.

            That was a mistake; the red-haired man saw his Adam’s apple bob and narrowed his eyes. “Hey…” Roughly, he shoved his hand down Steve’s blouse, feeling the stuffed, borrowed brassiere and the flat chest underneath. Scowling, Red tore his hand away, popping one of the buttons off the blouse. “Shit, I told you he wasn’t no dame!” He pushed Steve hard into the brick wall of the alley, hocking and spitting on him. “Just a little fruit prancin’ around in a dress.”

            Steve shivered, holding his blouse closed. His heart sank into his stomach. “J-just leave me alone.”

            Beard cackled, grabbing his collar and slamming him back against the wall. “Pretty enough to be one. You wanna be a lady, little fag?” His calloused fingers, stained with asphalt, found the buttons on the hip of Steve’s skirt and ripped them off. “We’ll make ya feel like a lady. A real pretty lady.”

            His voice gave Steve chills. Clawing at his skirt to keep it up, he whimpered and tried to squirm out of Beard’s grip. “I didn’t do anything—I’m going home—“

            “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Red reached over and tore the flower clip from Steve’s hair. He threw it into a puddle, a tuft of blonde hair still pinned in its clasp. He gripped Steve’s jaw hard, yanking his face to one side. “You’re a dirty little faggot.” He threw up his knee, driving it into Steve’s gut and snapping his back against the sharp bricks. “And you’re gonna fuckin’ pay.”

            “I d-didn’t _do_ anything—“ Steve gasped, the wind thrown out of him from the blow.

            “Aw, don’t worry, baby.” Beard grabbed a handful of his hair, using his other hand to smear the lipstick off Steve’s mouth and up his cheek in messy streaks. The lipstick-covered hand closed around Steve’s throat. “You just wanna feel like a real girl, don’tcha?”

            Steve choked, wrenching fruitlessly away from the hand blocking his airway. Beard unzipped his fly, and the sound sent a spike of panic right into Steve’s gut. He felt hot tears leaking down his cheeks, soaking into his foundation. Unable to stifle a breathless whimper, he struggled, clawing at the bricks behind him.

            Red snarled, yanking Steve’s skirt down to his knees. “Shut up, you little freak. Don’t want us to call the cops, now, do ya?”

            “Now, why would you scumbags do a dumb thing like that?”

            The familiar voice made Steve cry harder than ever. When the men let him go to address the new threat, he collapsed into a heap on the asphalt and watched.

            “Thanks for findin’ my friend, boys.” Wearing his trademark smirk, Bucky crossed his arms, adjusting the cap of his uniform. “But I can take him from here. You go on back to work.”

            “Get lost, kiddo,” Red growled, cracking his knuckles and pulling on his hard hat. “We’re havin’ a private moment with this piece o’ shit fairy here.”

            Bucky’s smile disappeared. “That’s Corporal Kiddo to you, pal. Leave the boy alone.”

            “Or what?” Beard spat, fists clenched. “We gonna wrassle?”

            The smirk returned momentarily. “Maybe.”

            “March off, Soldier Boy,” Red sneered, shoving Bucky square in the chest.

            Without stumbling back, Bucky hauled off and punched him in the mouth, throwing him out into the street by the front of his hard hat. Beard swore and lunged for him, but Bucky caught him in the stomach with his elbow, knocking the wind out of the construction worker before knocking him flat with a sharp uppercut. Lip curling in disdain, Bucky threw the groaning man out into the street by the collar of his shirt. Wiping a fleck of someone else’s blood off his cheek, he placed himself pointedly between Steve and the men. “Why don’t you boys get back to work?”

            Grumbling, one by one, they scooped themselves up and wandered back to their posts. Satisfied, Bucky bent down to help Steve up, worriedly brushing the dust from his skirt and stockings. “Are you okay?”

            Steve wanted to say yes, but figured his sobbing and uncontrollable quivering would give him away. Instead, he just clung to Bucky’s arms, burying his face in the scratchy material of his jacket. Gently, Bucky redid the buttons of his blouse and tried to refasten his skirt, but the buttons had popped off entirely. Hurriedly, he tied the skirt back in place as best as he could with the torn belt and slipped out of his jacket, draping it around Steve’s shoulders and pulling it closed. Sniffling, Steve gripped the lapels and huddled under the heavy wool, breathing in the familiar scents of cold concrete and soap. Bucky’s hands were on his back, warm and gentle, and he buried his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, trying to get a handle on his ragged sobs.

            “It’s okay, Stevie.” Carefully, Bucky helped him stand, walking him out of the alley and back toward their building. “It’s not your fault. You’re gonna be okay.”

            “I didn’t—“ Steve gasped, chest heaving. “I shouldn’t—shouldn’t have worn it—outside the house—“

            “No, hey, it’s nothin’ you did.” Bucky squeezed his shoulder comfortingly, shooting a glare across the street at the cluster of significantly less-rowdy construction workers. “You look beautiful. And you should be able to walk down the street without havin’ to worry about creeps like them.”

            “I sh-shouldn’t have,” Steve mumbled, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t even do it in the first place. I’m a—“

            “Don’t you dare say it.” Stopping short, Bucky bent down to meet his eyes, holding him tightly. “There’s nothin’ wrong with you, Steve. Nothin’ at all.”

            He swallowed hard, lip trembling. “But—“

            “But nothin’.” Bucky’s eyes were fierce, his jaw tight. “Everything you are is just fine, Steve. I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.”

            Steve felt weak. His legs wobbled. “I—I’m sorry—“

            “You got nothin’ to be sorry for.” Bucky steered him into their building and up to the apartment. “C’mon and lie down. Just relax.”

            Sinking onto the mattress, Steve stared at his hands, which were shaking. Frustrated, he tore the bracelets off his wrists and threw them into the corner as hard as he could. Bucky jumped, setting down his duffel and coming to sit on the bed. “Jesus…”

            “I’m sorry,” Steve mumbled again. “I just wanted…”

            “I know.” Suddenly, Bucky’s breath was in his hair, his hands warming Steve’s freezing fingers. “And you are.” He pressed his lips to Steve’s temple, softly. “You’re gorgeous.” 


	10. Caretakers

~~1944~~

~~Seven miles from the front~~

            She stood at the entrance to the barracks, arms crossed and lips pursed to ward off the wave of raucous laughter.

            “You _dog!_ ”

            “The mayor’s _daughter_?”

            “How _was_ she?”

            Barnes laughed, throwing his feet up on the card table and tipping back in his chair. In the cramped space, he could reach nearly all the bunks just by leaning back. “ _Step-_ daughter, boys. I aim high, but my aim ain’t _that_ good.”

            “Still, she had to be…what, seventeen?” Dugan pressed.

            “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Dum Dum, what do you take me for? Hell if she wasn’t twenty.”

            Morita let out a long breath of smoke, twiddling a beer in the other hand. “And you didn’t answer my question, you skeez. How was she?”

            Grinning, Barnes pretended to yawn and rolled out of his chair. “Think I’ll turn in, boys. Take it easy. Say your prayers an’ all.”

            Loud, boisterous booing and complaining erupted from the small table. Middle fingers shook in his direction.

            She cleared her throat.

            “All right, all right, if you’re gonna have a cow about it—“ Twisting the chair around to straddle it, Barnes leaned on the table, biting back a devilish smirk. “You know I never kiss and tell—“

            Scowling, Morita threw his cigarette onto the table, starting the booing again.

            “—but!” Holding up a hand to stop him, Barnes took a quick survey of the room to make sure all eyes were on him. “With what she had me kissin’, it’d be hard to t—“

            She cleared her throat again, this time subtly pushing over a lamp by the door to punctuate it. All the Commandos jumped, staring at her with wide eyes. Satisfied, Peggy put on a polite smile. “Sergeant? A word?”

            “Yeah, sure.” Pushing his chair back in, he followed her out to the hall, shooting a mouthed _I-don’t-know_ over his shoulder at the boys. Pushing the barracks’ door shut behind him with one foot, he took one look at her pursed lips and snorted into another of those crooked grins she wished tremendously he hadn’t taught to the rest of the Commandos. “Well, don’t you just look like murder on heels, Little Miss Union Jack.”

            “I outrank you _and_ your father,” she snapped, dragging him into the kitchenette between her and Howard’s bedrooms. “What did you say to Steve?”

            “To Steve?” Barnes sat up on the counter and thought. “Nothin’ I can think of.”

            “I find _that_ hard to believe.”

            Flinching, Barnes gave her a look like a kicked puppy. “Y’know, I’m nothin’ but nice to _you_.”

            Peggy sighed heavily, staring tiredly at a small gathering of teacups around the veritable mountain of coffee mugs Howard had gone through in his past three all-nighters. “I’m sorry. It’s just—I’ve never seen him like this.”

            He cocked an eyebrow. “Like what?”

            She swallowed. “He’s in my room _crying_ , Barnes. Facedown, into the pillow, sobbing.”

            It hit him like a slap in the face. “Really?”

            “Yes!” Hopping up onto the counter across from him, Peggy clenched and unclenched her fists in her lap. “And you were the last one to speak with him before the lot of you went in to sing the praises of your sexual exploits, so I’d _love_ to know what you said that set it off.”

            “Nothin’ that would make him cry!” he insisted, eyeing the cabinet above the sink where Howard kept the emergency whiskey. “He thanked me for taking those HYDRA snipers off his ass, I made some dumb joke, he called me a meatball…then I asked if he was gonna come unwind with the boys, and he said he’d be there in a sec. I dunno what got him upset…” Biting his lip, Barnes looked at her helplessly. “Maybe he’s just tired out from the mission?”

             “It takes more than a standard door-buster to tire Steve out.” She shook her head. “Can you please just go talk to him?”

            Barnes winced, sliding off the counter. “Maybe you should do that. He’s in _your_ room—“

            “Me…?” Peggy frowned, setting down the teacup she’d been fiddling with. “I already _tried_ talking to him. He insists he’s fine.”

            “What makes you think he’s gonna do any different with me?!” he snapped, the sudden flash of anger catching her off guard.

            Scowling, she put her hands on her hips. “You _are_ his best friend, aren’t you?”

            “If that ain’t the question of the year.”

            “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

            Barnes sighed. “I’ve been friends with Steve since we were kids, yeah. But I don’t know if I’m his best friend.”

            She crossed her arms. “Sergeant, if you two’ve been fighting, that’s a potential threat to the SSR, and it should’ve been reported—“

            He rolled his eyes. “Yeah.  Don’t it seem like Captain America would’ve reported that if it was happening? We’re not fighting.”

            “Well,” she replied scathingly, “then I would suggest you explain why you’re acting so _painfully_ infantile.”

            “Calm down, Miss U-J.” Barnes leaned back on the counter, glaring at his boots. “Steve and I just don’t talk like that anymore is all.”

            “I don’t see why not. He’s so grateful just to see you _alive_ …” Peggy shook her head. “I would’ve thought the two of you would be inseparable. Unless it’s not mutual.”

            He let out his breath, shifting uncomfortably against the counter. “Let’s just say I woulda preferred to see _Steve_ alive.”

            “Let’s _not_.” Rapping on the counter to get his attention, she scowled. “I’ll need a little more than that, Sergeant.”

            Barnes was quiet for a while, scratching at the laminate countertop. “I haven’t talked to Steve since I shipped off after the Expo.”

            “You’re exaggerating.”

            He shook his head. “I’m not. Since he pulled me out of isolation, every word outta his mouth has been Captain America. I don’t know if Steve is even still in there.”

            “Barnes, don’t be ridiculous—“ she pleaded, glancing over her shoulder to the wall that led to her bedroom—and wondering how thin the walls were.

            “Look, I’m happy he’s here to save America and all,” Barnes went on with painful matter-of-factness. “I know we’re makin’ history, and if it weren’t for him, HYDRA would be four steps ahead of the US instead of two steps behind. I know this is the whole reason we’re fighting this war, and the whole reason I joined up. I just wish I didn’t have to lose Steve to pull that off.”

            “You haven’t _lost_ him,” Peggy insisted, trying and failing to catch his eye. “He’s still the same Steve, he’s just…bigger.”

            “You didn’t pull him out of lockers for ten years!” Barnes exploded, banging his fist on the counter. She thought she saw it leave a dent in the laminate, but the only person on the base capable of doing that was Steve. “You didn’t teach him how to walk again when he got his leg braces off! You didn’t work _three jobs_ for _three years_ when we got outta school to keep him in a nice apartment! _You don’t know Steve,_ Carter!” He bit back a choke. “I do.” Jaw tightening, he looked away. “And that can’t be—that’s not Steve.”

            Peggy was quiet for a long time, studying him. “You love him, don’t you?”

            Barnes didn’t look up. “Of course I love him. He’s my best friend.”

            “No, I don’t mean you love him. I mean you _love_ him.” Pointedly, she scooted closer to him.

            After a minute, he sighed. “Since high school.” He drooped. “Not that it matters.”

            “Of course it matters.” Peggy squeezed his shoulder. “You’re in love with him.”

            “So are you,” he shot back.

            “I’m not—“ She bit her lip. “I wouldn’t—I mean, you loved him first, Barnes. I wouldn’t get in the way.”

            “But he loves you back,” he protested. “I mean, he loves me, but he _loves_ you.”

            “I don’t think he’s as oblivious as you think,” she offered. “You were all he talked about until we found the base in Italy. I have no intention of making any moves—or being moved _on_ —for a while, and if you really care about him…”

            “It doesn’t matter how I feel about him,” Barnes grumbled. “Or how much I care. Even if he could love me, he’s not the Steve I grew up with.”

            “Are you sure?” Peggy frowned. “Does he really need the bad ear or the crooked walk—“

            “Asthma,” he muttered.

            “— _Or_ the asthma.” She rolled her eyes. “Does he need all those things to be the man you—“

            “Don’t say it.” He stiffened.

             “All right.” She let go of his shoulder, just in case. “All I mean is he can’t have changed _that_ much.”

            “You don’t understand.” Shaking his head, Barnes looked over his shoulder at the wall to the bedroom. “That _can’t_ be Steve, or at least, it can’t be permanent, because if it is—when we get home—that means—“ His voice broke. “That means he won’t need me anymore.”

            “It _is_ him,” she pressed gently. “You should be proud. This is what Steve always wanted to do. We just gave him the ability to do it.”

            “But that kills me. Every time he says something like that now?” Puffing himself up, he mimicked Steve in a voice that was a little too gravelly, but otherwise a reasonable impression. “‘You don’t have to stay on my left, Buck’. Or ‘I can get it myself’. Or ‘Of course I can breathe okay’.” His shoulders drooped. “It kills me.”

            “It should be a relief. You don’t have to do everything for him anymore.” Peggy fiddled with her lapel nervously.

            “Yes, I do. I _have_ to do everything for him.” Swallowing hard, Barnes was shaking in spite of himself. “Everything I can. Because he’s everything to me.”

            Peggy stared down at the tile. The silence hit them both like a punch in the stomach. She wanted to protest, but she didn’t have enough experience with Steve pre-serum to do so. For all she knew, it was only wishful thinking that had her believing he’d stayed the same on the inside. She realized slowly that Barnes must have been fighting this since they’d rescued him in Italy. Like Steve, she’d assumed it was a combination of HYDRA’s tortures and shock of being held prisoner making him keep his distance, but it would make sense for seeing one’s childhood friend undergo that level of transformation to be even more shocking. She hated to think what it would do to Steve to find out.

            “I’m sorry.” Barnes’ voice was dead. “I just…it’s hard to face him anymore. It hurts.”

            All she could think to say was, “You’ll break his heart.”

            “I know.” He swallowed around a lump the size of an orange. “But I’m gonna lose him, anyway. It’s gotta look like I don’t care.” He looked up at her with dull, red-rimmed eyes. “Otherwise I’m gonna end up begging him to stay.”


	11. 1917-1945

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the Bucky-centrism and lack of Steve. And the dramatic irony. And the one-shot companion to this that's en route. Honestly, I'm just sorry.

~~1944~~

            Nothing moved in the frozen Polish countryside. HYDRA’s base hunkered in the snow like a sleeping dragon, a black splash of concrete buildings and Quonset huts in the evergreen forest. Guards in shiny black helmets stood stalwart in their towers, squinting out into the blinding whiteness. There had been reports of American troops in the area, though no sightings had been made. There was hardly anything worth attacking this particular base for. The Red Skull personally hated the Lødz base and avoided visiting it at all costs, so nothing sensitive or high-profile was kept there. Surplus equipment and men, mostly, cluttered up the underground halls. Still, the guards kept close watch, shocked awake by the cold seeping in their drafty, grunt-level uniforms.

            Suddenly, they heard the growl of an engine, far in the distance. Both gate-guards stiffened. There were no friendly transports scheduled for arrival.

            The stolen transport truck roared over the woodland path, bouncing down the hill toward the base. The northwest guard made to sound the alarm, glancing across the north wall to make sure his partner was locking down the gate. Instead, he heard a tiny _pop_ and saw a small flash from a tall fir to the east, and his partner dropped forward, directly on the lever to open the gate. The northwest guard pounded the button to sound the alarm, but it was stuck—frozen in place. With a screech, the heavy steel gate slid open, and the truck blasted past the north wall, ramming right into—and _through_ —the main Quonset.

            Better than any alarm, the growling engine and screaming researchers sent all staff running out into the square, sidearms drawn. They were just slightly slower than the occupants of the truck, who piled out onto the snow, guns blazing, American colours splashed proudly across their chests, letting out the loud whoops and hollers than had earned their crack team its name: the Howling Commandos.

            They scattered, each man taking on a veritable squadron of HYDRA guards. Every so often, the _pop_ and flash would go off from the trees, and a scientist—always a scientist—would fall. The northwest guard leaped out of his post, pulling his rifle. Stolen from an American supply truck, it was the automatic kind with STARK stamped on the barrel.

            No sooner had his boots hit the ground than another engine growling into the fray—a motorbike. This particular motorbike, and the man it carried, had been the subjects of a special bulletin to all HYDRA staff only a year ago, after the disaster at the Italian plant. Any HYDRA base that managed to capture Captain America would be rewarded with pensions that could buy each and every employee their own private island—provided he was taken alive.

            A few agents tried for their island and were promptly knocked unconscious by the legendary shield, uppercut into submission by the stars and stripes. The northwest guard didn’t feel like taking his chances, but he did feel like taking one of the surplus trucks kept behind the main fortress. He also felt like using it to run down the Commando no one else had bothered to reach: the sniper.

            It was in all the bulletins about the Americans. Cap was the big game, but his squad of nine was just as bad. A motley crew of American, British, and French castoffs, they were two special ops rejects, a demolitions expert, a pararescue, three seasoned and commissioned infantrymen, a getaway driver, and a marksman. The first eight were the Captain’s hands on the ground, but the last one had a tendency to make life hell from above, picking off the unarmed staff and anyone who dared to sneak up on America’s sweetheart with deadly precision. This time, though, he wasn’t going to be a problem.

            The cargo truck snarled through the busted front gate and hit the craggy old evergreen full-force, shaking loose a hundred kilos of snow and ninety kilos of American from its branches. Eyes locked on the rearview mirror, the northwest guard waited until he saw the sniper stagger to his feet before throwing the truck into reverse and stomping on the gas, driving him backward through the gates and into the far wall of the compound with the bed of the truck. He heard a satisfying _crunch_.

 

            “He shouldn’t be _fine_ ,” Howard said for possibly the eighteenth time. “Nobody—“

            “We get it, Stark. Nobody gets hit by a truck, then two tons of stone, and walks away _fine_. But _he_ is, and I know folks back home who’d very much like to know why, so we can make sure we didn’t just waste hundreds of thousands of government dollars and Abraham Erskine’s life on a serum that only gives our boys abilities they already had.” Leaning back in his chair, the colonel crossed his arms. “Hope you’re not afraid of needles, Sergeant. Mr Stark’s gonna need to poke you with quite a few.”

            Barnes only grunted, not looking up from the table. He was gripping the edge of the polished wood so hard his knuckles were white.

            “No one’s poking anyone with needles.” Peggy frowned. “The supersoldier project was abandoned, and it’ll stay that way. It was a freak accident. They happen. More so than miracles. And more importantly, gentlemen, this is a war, not a science fair. HYDRA isn’t going to wait for us to run our little experiments. Save the poking and prodding for after this thing is won.”

            “ _HYDRA_ isn’t saving their experiments,” Stark pointed out. “They’re still using those pumped-up weapons to carve a smoking trail through Europe, and they’re constantly coming up with bigger and better ones. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re doing with the Red Skull’s blood what we’re doing with Cap’s, only probably better, because they actually _give_ their scientists—“

            “Boy, you sure are talkin’ a lot of game for a boy who lied on his employment forms with this institution,” Philips drawled, shooting him a scathing look. Howard clammed up.

            “The Howling Commandos are a better special ops team than any battalion in the entire Third Reich,” Peggy insisted. “We don’t need Steve’s blood or Barnes’ blood or _anyone’s_ blood to make them better. They’re already good enough.”

            “That’s great, Agent Carter. Then this here will go down as the first ever war won on ‘good enough’.” Shaking his head, Colonel Philips scribbled something down on one of the mimeographed blue forms in front of him—blue meaning medical. “Besides, this gives Stark something to do while we head for the next outpost. If you still think it was a freak accident.”

            “It _was_ ,” she pressed.

            “It wasn’t,” Barnes muttered. Swallowing, he shifted his gaze up from burning through the wood of the table and sat back. “HYDRA did it.”

            “And how do you know that?” Philips frowned.

            “Aside from the fact I got creamed by a truck and there ain’t a scratch on me?” Barnes scowled and pushed away from the table, suddenly incensed. “How about this?” Without breaking the colonel’s gaze, he dug his fingers into the solid wood and tore a chunk out of the table.

            The other three only stared. Jones could’ve flown a plane into Stark’s open mouth.

            Barely strained, Barnes tossed the hunk of hardwood onto the map pinned to the table and dropped back into his chair. In the dim light, Peggy could see the dents in the varnish from his fingers. Howard ripped one of the forms in half and started scribbling notes on the back of it, eyes still glued to the shreds of mahogany.

            “Well,” Philips said after a moment. “I s’pose you didn’t learn to do that in basic.”

            “Hell I did.” Glowering, Barnes threw his feet up on the ragged end of the table. “But I’ve been doing stuff like that since Steve pulled me out of isolation. Pulling doors off the hinges, leaving dents in my hand guard…walking away unscathed from vehicle crashes.”

            “I thought _Steve_ was the one pulling off doors.” Peggy frowned.

            “So does he.” He gritted his teeth. “And he’s gonna keep thinkin’ that until we figure this out.”

            “I’ll do the figuring, Sarge, don’t you worry.” Eyes lighting up like a kid at Christmas, Howard grinned. “This is gonna be fun.”

            Four tests and three phials of blood later, and Peggy all but shoved the overexcited Stark out of the room, slamming the door behind him. “I expect you’ll want this kept from Steve?” she asked, looking away politely while Barnes pulled his trousers back on.

            “Ideally.”

            “Why?”

            He sighed. “He’s already worried about what they did to me in Italy. I don’t wanna prove him right. Like you said, we got a war to win. He should be focused on that.”

            “And you?” She cocked an eyebrow.

            Smirking, he tried to brush past her. “ _I_ think he’s distracted enough with you around, Miss Union Jack.”

            Rolling her eyes, Peggy caught him by the collar. “Very cute, Fumblin’ Dublin, but I meant will _you_ be able to focus on the war with this…distraction?”

            Barnes nodded, but his smile wavered. “Stronger I am, the louder I howl. Right?”

 

~~1945~~

~~Italian Alps~~

            “Pull over.” Peggy leaned forward in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on a spot in the mountains. “This is where Steve said he went over.”

            “You sure?” the colonel asked, squinting against the bright snow to follow her gaze.

            Jaw clenched, she nodded. “This is the kind of thing he’d be right about.”

            They picked through the forest to the foot of the cliff. Philips glanced up the steep slope to the railroad tracks above. “I don’t know what Stark’s found out about HYDRA’s messin’ around, but that looks a little too high to me.”

            “It’s worth a shot,” Peggy snapped, zipping her coat a little higher against the wind and stepping carefully down onto the sharp rocks. “Anything’s worth a shot. Commandos don’t leave a brother behind.”

            “Hell,” Philips grumbled, stumbling on the rocky ground. “I already wrote one condolence letter for Sergeant Barnes. Can’t say I’m eager to write another.”

            She didn’t answer, climbing over a blackened chunk of train and landing in tamped-down snow.

            The colonel snorted, following her lead with significantly more difficulty and significantly less grace. Catching his breath in a snowbank, he cocked an eyebrow. “I suppose you’re in this for another reason.”

            Scowling, Peggy elected to leave him behind, picking through the rocks. “And I don’t suppose you’ll make me ask what you’re implying.”

            Panting from the effort of keeping up with her, the colonel shrugged innocently. “Cap’s not gonna take this well is all.”

            “Of course I don’t want Steve to have to go through this,” she replied coldly, glaring at the snowy rocks. “But it’s more than that.”

            Philips was quiet for a while, huffing and puffing behind her. “No, I know,” he said, once they were safely tucked behind a hunk of metal that blocked the shredding wind. “Easy to miss the trees for the forest. Barnes was a good soldier.”

            “He’s not just a soldier.” Peggy brushed snow off her trousers, catching her breath. “Barnes stayed with his men for three months in a POW camp. He made them laugh while their fellow American soldiers were screaming in isolation. You might’ve made these boys into soldiers, and Cap made them into Commandos, but James Barnes keeps them human.” She hiked up another half-slope, squinting into the wind. “He’s more than a point-and-click weapon. They all are.” Spotting a dark spot a few yards away, she skidded down the other side. “So if there’s any hope he’s still alive, I’m following it.” Without waiting for an answer, she climbed over the last crest—and froze, horrified.

            Philips followed on her heels and did the same, stopping short when he saw it. “About that hope.”

            The dark spot was blood. A lot of blood. It sprayed out in streaks from a central impact point, staining the snow a dark, browning red.

            Peggy’s breath caught. “Oh, no.”

            “Drag marks,” the colonel observed, picking through the snow to the stain. “No footprints. Something probably carried him off. Bear, wolf…anything in these woods.”

            “Follow the trail, then.” Swallowing around the lump in her throat, Peggy did her best not to think about the emptiness in Steve’s eyes when he’d returned from the mission. “He could’ve fought it off. Or they’re not drag marks, they’re crawling-marks. He could be hitchhiking right now—“

            “Agent Carter.”

            She stopped.

            Philips’ face was clouded as he turned to traipse back to the car. “We’re goin’ back. I got a letter to write.”

            “No.” Firmly, she started tramping toward the drag marks. “Not until we find a body.”

            “He gave his life for his country.” Tiredly, the colonel grabbed her shoulder. “Let the man rest in peace.”

            “There’s only one person on earth James Barnes would give his life for,” Peggy snapped, her mouth a hard line. Her stomach twisted. “And it’s not Lady Liberty.”

            “Give it up, Agent.” The colonel sighed heavily, looking vainly back at the blood splashed across the dirty snow. “Whatever they did to him, it wasn’t enough.”


End file.
